


Quix·ot·ic

by Startabi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hand Jobs, Reader Insert, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, a bit o' somnophilia if you squint, mandalorian? more like DADalorian, pure fucking filth yall, what is wrong with me good lord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22082644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi
Summary: He's an enigma. Something completely unattainable, but after finding yourself on the wrong end of trouble, that all changes. Who knew getting beat up would end up with giving Mando a handjob.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Dyn Jarren/Reader, Dyn Jarren/You, Mando/reader, Mando/you, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 71
Kudos: 575





	1. Wrong End of Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> uh oh sisters.

You never knew for sure what you would end up doing in your life. You imagined you'd become a moisture farmer on Tatooine or a bartender on Coruscant, maybe get to see a drunken fight or two if you were lucky. Or maybe you'd end up in some Wild Space planet where you'd live out the rest of your days eating berries and soaking up the sun. Whatever the case, being hired by a Mandalorian was _not_ on your list of positively exuberant made up occupations. Or, you know, having a teeny tiny crush on said man.

It's generous pay, a gracious 12 percent of his quarries, and you feel sorta bad because, truly, you don't _do_ anything besides babysit the little green monster and occasionally fly the Razor Crest. You do however, manage to get the hyperdrive working up to a _staggering_ 68 percent functionality rate that you're _quite_ proud of. You're not sure if he cared when you mentioned it to him, but he did offer an impartial tilt of his helmet. You like to believe it was his way of saying that, _Ah, yes, of course. I needed that fixed. Thank you so very much my beloved companion. What would I do without you?_

He would never say that. In fact, he doesn't really say _anything_ at all. You're used to bustling crowds and chatty folk and talking your way out of things because, hey, not everyone is a walking armory that's nigh indestructible. You don't think you've ever been this silent in your meager life, and so you've pushed yourself into a corner. You don't ask questions even if that miraculous shiny helmet and smooth modulated voice makes a million of them spring forth. You don't know a thing except for the highly exaggerated or just plain wrong theories you've heard about the Mandalorians, and you don't want to offend him. You're not willing to poke at his patience even if it _is_ tempting.

Sometimes, when he brings back bounties, it offers you a bit of in-house entertainment. Seeing him wrestle them into carbonite is really, if you're being honest, _hot_. It shouldn't be and it terrifies you that he's _that_ strong, but your dirty, disgusting ape-brain still gets a kick out of it. 

You end up just talking to the kid most days. It just coos and babbles, understanding jack-shit, but the Mandalorian is unattainable, a lonesome planet that's not even in your fucking orbit, and you're pretty sure he forgets you exist most of the time.

And then everything shifts.

You go outside for once, antsy from being cooped up in the Crest for so long and you need stuff for the kid (and caf for yourself). Naturally, you wander through the markets, not really thinking, just letting your eyes graze over things, take in the buzzing crowds. It reminds you of home and you get so lost in your head (you blame it on your constant isolation) that you wander into some grubby cantina. They're playing Sabaac in the corner and somehow you're roped into playing. _Stars_ , you don't even know how to play Sabaac very well and of course you end up loosing.

It wasn't even your money to begin with; you took the seat of a Bothan who angrily threw their cards down, but for some reason the stupid Rodian sitting to your left got the idea that you did, in fact, owe him a great deal of Calamari flan. You thought you outsmarted him by feigning the need to take a piss and then squeezing through the much too small window in the bathroom. Unfortunately, when you're halfway sticking out, wriggling around like some weird earthworm, the Rodian's got two more buddies with him and they yank you out the window.

Really, you're lucky that all they did was beat the living _shit_ out of you instead of selling you to some Spice mine or to some seedy guy with a penchant for half-naked slaves. You tell yourself this as you manage to pick yourself off the grimy ground and limp, somewhat conscious, back to the Razor Crest. 

Your head is pounding noticeably by the time you reach it and fuzzy darkness is creeping at the edges of your vision. You're relieved that he isn't back yet, because this is embarrassing and you don't want him to think that you're some sort of trouble maker. He doesn't need more problems added on to his plate. You have just enough time to lower yourself onto the floor and pass out against a cargo crate. 

Hours pass before you wake up, and you know this because the sun is melting against the horizon like butter (wasn't it just morning?) and oh—the Mandalorian is hovering over you. The sun is reflecting off his armor and it almost hurts to look at him. You have to blink a few times to make sure you aren't hallucinating and he really is saying your name in that lovely baritone voice of his, all raspy and modified by the vocoder.

"Ah, shiny, you're back." You don't know why that's the first thing you say and you want to knock yourself out again.

"Who did this?" He's asking and you can't really process words right now, much less concentrate on anything but your spinning head. He sounds mad but you can't be sure if it's directed at your own stupidity.

Maker, how are you still alive?

You don't recall shutting your eyes again but two large hands that cup the sides of your face make them open. "Hey. Stay with me."

"Never left, Mando."

"Who did this to you?" He asks again and your brain finally catches up a bit and it's jarring to know that he cares about you. At least a little.

You try to sit up but he's gently holding you in place. "M'fine. Jus—jus' a few bruises."

Again, you try to stand but his hands are gripping your shoulders and forcing you back against the crate. Your heart pounds against your chest at his prolonged touch.

"Just stop— _damnit!_ Stay still," Mando snarls as you try to wriggle out of his grip for a third time. "Let me see."

You stare up at that unforgiving mask as he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, wincing at the movement. You know you have a black eye and the crusty feel of dried blood is lain on thick above your hairline and you wonder if it looks as bad as it feels.

"They did a number on you."

Yup. They sure did you wanna say but it hurts to move your mouth and your tongue feels swollen and puffy like you're allergic to your own blood.

He says something about moving you to the bunk but as his hand slips under your armpit and wraps around your waist, you're gasping in pain. Your breath gets sucked away like someone's punched you in the gut and you crumple back onto the floor. His gloved hand comes away dark red.

" _Shit—_ Take off your shirt." He commands, leaving no room for argument.

You huff out a laugh that's closer to a faint wheeze. "B-buy me a dri—a drink first."

"Maybe later."

Now _that_ certainly grabs your attention but you don't have time to analyze all that because he hooks his hands under the hem of your shirt and yanks it above your shoulders and off your head. You look down and _holy fucking shit—_ when the fuck did you get _stabbed?_ You don't remember those thugs having knives.

"Stay here."

_Like I'll be going anywhere_ , you want to quip back. The Mandalorian shuts the hull, blocking off your view of the spectacular sunset and returns with the cauterizer in hand. You make a face and try to fend him off, because you are _not_ in the mood to get your flesh singed back together but he's set on the idea. It doesn't take long for him to wrestle your arm down and under your back, exposing the bloody gash that stretches from the middle of your ribcage and down until it stops just above the last rib.

You don't like the way you're positioned. He's somehow got your legs trapped between him and the crate while you're half splayed over his lap, one arm stuck beneath your own weight while the other he holds in a death grip. It's too vulnerable and when he trades his hold on your arm for a hand on your hip to get a better hold so he can start pressing the laser onto your flesh, arousal sparks in your belly.

Unfortunately, you don't get to enjoy the weight of his long fingers splayed across your skin or let the fantasy of him fucking you into the next galaxy play out, because razor sharp pain is erupting throughout your whole left side. You jerk in his grip and your mouth falls open with a silent cry. You've been burned before from stray wires or way too hot sheets of metal, but this? This is pure fucking torture and you don't know how the hell he does this to himself. Let alone stay conscious.

You do end up passing out again (an embarrassing fact he doesn't mention and you're thankful for it) and you awake to something warm and calloused trailing up and down your exposed skin, avoiding the sensitive area surrounding the charred and throbbing wound. It's soothing and almost entirely masks the pain. It isn't until the tip of a forefinger is carefully tracing lines between your freckles, most certainly studying them, that you realize _whose_ finger it belongs to. _Sans_ _gloves_.

You go rigid and he stops. You bite back a whine at the loss.

"Is...is this ok?" He's saying softly through the vocoder. It still sounds warm and dark despite the mechanical tone to it. You can hardly form a comprehensive thought and you have to fight through the hazy fog to force out a jerky nod of your head.

"Y-yeah," you croak out and there's a half second delay, if not shorter, before he's touching you again. This time it's bolder, braver like his fingers are starved and the only thing available is you.

His breath comes out stuttered as you twitch under him. "You're so soft."

His hands are a beautiful sun-kissed brown, speckled with scars from past battles. You want to plant kisses over the slopes of his knuckles, trail your tongue over the lines of his palm, but you're still uncomfortably trapped in his lap against the cold beskar cuirass. It's torture.

The Mandalorian's fingers dance up your shoulder, your breath stuttering as they skim over your collarbone then sweep up the column of your throat you readily bare for him. He threads those long, warm digits through your hair, thumbing the strands then tucks them behind your ear. Your heart slams against your ribcage and you're sure it might just burst.

"Breathe," he says. You can hear the smile in his words.

Despite the shaky inhale, it's even harder to breath and you wonder if one of your lungs collapsed as well. He gently pinches your chin, cradling your jaw so you're staring up at him. You can feel is eyes on you through that shaded visor and you nearly miss the hitch in his breath when your tongue flicks out and slides along the pad of his thumb that traces your bottom lip.

Liquid heat pools in your lower belly as two of his fingers press at the seam of your lips. You part your mouth and he ever so slowly slips them in. You groan softly and curl your tongue around the two digits until the shine with sticky saliva, the surrealness of the situation making you lightheaded. Who would've thought you'd be here after getting beaten and stabbed after a Sabaac game gone wrong, and you're all but giving Mando's fingers a blowjob. You wouldn't fucking _believe,_ but yet, here you are _._

His hips twitch as you curl your tongue around his middle finger and slide it between the delicate skin there, and you can feel the firm bulge digging into your lower back. Desperate and burning for the chance to touch him, you manage to wiggle your arm behind your back, tracing the cuirass all the way down to the hem of his trousers. You palm at his cock through the material and his hips jerk into the touch, his torso hunching over you, the cold metal brushing over your arm. His fingers leave your mouth with a slick _pop_ and he's reaching in between you to grasp at your wrist and grind your palm harder against cock. The angle in which your arm is twisted is uncomfortable at best, but your mind rears at the thought of moving. You don't want whatever _this_ is to end.

_"Shit,"_ he hisses. "S'good—fucking _good_. _"_

"Mando," you whimper. He feels just as firm as beskar if not harder and you know your underwear is far beyond salvaging as his other hand wraps around and grabs at your breast.

"You—you're so pretty an—and _brave_ ," he grunts, thrusting his hips in tandem with the hold you've got on his throbbing cock. Your heart swells and you're blushing for an entire different reason. "So b-brave for me."

There's a brief pause as he shoos away your hand and your chest seizes in worry that you've upset him somehow. That he'd suddenly changed his mind about this whole thing. Is going to kill you? Put you out of your fucking misery? Or— _oh_. Your fears are _quickly_ stamped out once you realize he's shuffling his trousers down and tugging your hand back around him. He is _searing_ hot, thick and pulsing in your hand and when you give it an experimental tug he makes a punched out sound.

It's an awkward angle, but Maker do you try. Mando doesn't seem to care and judging by the sticky wetness that's dribbling over your knuckles, he _certainly_ likes it. Much too focused on your current task, you don't note his hand smooth over your stomach and slip under the waistband until his fingers are circling your clit. You gasp and buck your hips into his touch, your hand stopping.

"Keep— _ah_ _—_ going," he's muttering, lowering his helmet to rest on the curve of your shoulder. " _Fuck_. Don't stop."

It's hard (pun _all_ intended), _real_ hard to focus when his fingers are swiping down your soaking slit, gathering the wetness there then back up to draw meticulous patterns over the bundle of nerves. At this point, your brain is a muddled mess and you aren't doing much except for holding your hand loosely so he can fuck into it.

The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burn through you, drag you closer to the precipice, and you're whimpering out the only name you have for him. Wicked heat blooms in your abdomen, spreads through your core and sweeps out into your shaking legs. You arch into him and with a steady hand, he parts your lips, thrusts his fingers inside and grinds the heel of his palm where you need him the most.

"That's it. Go-good girl. Cum—cum for me." Paired with his voice as his fingers press up and curl into something _sickeningly_ good and you're _gone_. "S'good girl."

Your eyes squeeze shut as light compatible to hyperspace explodes behind your eyelids. You don't think you've ever cum this hard and it almost _aches_ how good it feels as your legs lock and your nerves are set on fire. It burns through you and you wouldn't be surprised if your body goes up in flames. You twitch and jerk in his lap, breathing ragged, as he continues to thrust into your cunt, letting you ride out each and every tendril of pleasure until you melt into his lap. He still toys with your oversensitive clit and you have to push his hand away.

An overwhelming wave of exhaustion abruptly washes over you; a mix of getting stabbed and just having the _best_ damn orgasm of your life you think. But Mando is still rutting up against your back and you fight the urge to close your eyes and pass the fuck out. With a shaky hand, you reach for his cock once again, a fresh wave of heat flashing through you as a lovely moan, soft and vulnerable echoes through the modulator.

" _Maker,"_ he gasps, "You—I'm—M'gonna cum.."

He wraps his hand around yours, squeezing around the hardened flesh and giving his cock a few more hard thrusts before a broken gasp rips through the modulator. His body stiffens and the Mandalorian cums _hard._ Hot ropes of liquid coat your hand and the small of your back, his cock throbbing and pulsing in your grip. He snarls out your name, still thrusting up into your fist, milking every last spurt of cum until it tapers off and swears are tumbling out.

Sleep is tugging at your eyelids when his rapid breathing begins to even out, his fingers spreading his seed over your back as if marking you. You shiver. "M'falling asleep."

"Yeah, ok," he breathes. "You need rest. Brave girl—you did so well. Close your eyes, rest."

You do just that and fall into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.


	2. Pro·found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you already know what the fuck be goin on

He's stuck to you like glue.

After waking up in an unfamiliar bed, swathed in no less than _three_ blankets, it's safe to say you were thoroughly confused. It's only after you roll onto your side, your _injured_ side mind you, that you remember what transpired the day before. It sends a happy tingle all the way down to your toes but knocking your elbow against your wound and then nearly giving yourself a fucking concussion when you slam your head against the bed frame, stamps out that fire real fast.

When you finally manage to roll out of his bed with minimal damage, you find Mando hovering by the door, holding the little green goblin. It wiggles in his gloved grip (you already miss the bare feel of his hands) and when it spots you, it reaches out and begins to coo.

"He won't stop squirming," he tells you, and you reach towards him and sweep the kid into your arms.

You plant a kiss on its tiny wrinkly forehead. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You needed the rest," Mando answers. He steps closer until the only thing that separates you is the kid. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been stabbed," you snort. "And then run over by a pod racer."

He hums in acknowledgment and brings his hands up. Your breath hitches as he cups your face, gently turning your head from side to side to take in your injuries once again. Your lips quirk into a smile. "Am I gonna live, doc?"

"Maybe," he huffs, "As long as you don't make this a habit."

His thumb runs along your bottom lip as you stare up into his visor. "And if I do?"

"Then I'll throw your ass in carbonite and sell you to a coaxium mine for the trouble."

"Oh, ok, _wow_ ," you laugh, breaking away. You head towards the kid's crib and Mando follows close behind. "Good to know where I stand."

You place the child into their crib and give those ridiculously sized ears a gently pat and just as you take your hands away, an arm reaches around you and shuts the panel of the crib. You make an irritated noise as it clicks shut and when you turn around he's crowding you into the wall. You squeak as your back hits the wall and you jump five feet into the fucking air as his hands wrap around your hips, thumbs pressing into your hipbones.

He keeps you there, trapped between the unforgiving metal wall and the even harder beskar cuirass. Your heart is pounding against your ribs and you're sure that he can feel it. You're a high-strung wire and he's tugging you even tighter, threatening to snap. He leans closer, invading your space even more, and _Maker_ he's big. Part of you is fucking _terrified_ of this man who could snap your neck like a cracker, and the other half wants to poke and prod at his buttons until he pins you down into submission.

"You sure you wanna throw my ass in carbonite?" You whisper. Plucking up enough courage, you let your hands gently whisper over the top of his thigh. The muscle there twitches and as you brush your fingertips lightly against his inner thigh, a ragged sigh leaves him.

"M'having second..." He tapers off as your fingertips dance along the quickly growing bulge in his trousers. "Second thoughts."

The Mandalorian's hands find their way underneath your shirt. The rough scrape of leather sends goosebumps over the skin of your stomach and he quickly decides the contact is insufficient. He pulls his hands out of your shirt and extends them forward. "Take them off."

You reach for them and he retreats. You flash him a look. "Wha-"

"With your mouth," he clarifies. You can practically _hear_ his smirk as he trails a gloved thumb over the line of your jaw. As it catches on your lower lip, he pushes into your mouth until your teeth lightly clamp down on the fabric and it slips off.

The other glove falls to the floor with a quiet _thunk_ and both of his hands rush to cradle your cheeks. Your eyes flutter shut as the scrape of his calloused thumbs trace the plush skin of your lips and you wonder if he's imagining what'd it be like to press his lips to yours. It's almost melancholic in the way he longingly skims over them, and you've never in the entirety of your life wanted to kiss someone as badly as him right now. 

It aches how much you want him, but he sweeps his palms down, over the fragile skin of your neck and you're momentarily distracted. You suck in a shaky breath as his palms, the warmth of them seeping through the fabric, hover _just_ above the swell of your breasts. As you arch into him, craving for those weathered digits to dip lower, the cover of the crib flies open. It startles you both and you're tearing yourself away for the little green monster, all pouty and irritated about its surprise timeout.

Though, you can't _really_ complain because when you lean over to pick the kid up, Mando presses himself into the curve of your body and whispers, "Later."

You nearly cream your pants then and there, but you've got a tiny goblin in your hands and that is _not_ exactly appropriate at the moment. You turn around and he's already the climbing the ladder up to the cockpit.

-=-=-=-

You don't know when _'later'_ is supposed to be. His _later_ could be days from now and that alone makes you wanna scream in frustration. Normally you're not this impatient, but with him? He's _addicting_. It's only been a couple hours and you're already craving him. 

You finally get the kid to sleep after three failed attempts, or what you like to call, impromptu hide and go seek, and as you slip into the seat beside the crib a low, buzzing whir echoes through the ship. You stand and when you're halfway to the ladder, wondering what the _fuck_ that was, all the lights shut off.

"Mando?" You call.

There's no response and you're a little worried. You can't see for shit, he's not answering, and the ship is floating in space with no power. Not your idea of a party, but hey, at least the oxygen filter still works.

Figuring that standing here like a weirdo in the dark probably isn't the best idea, you try and shuffle towards anything that feels familiar. Of course, you forget that there's that big fucking tube trailing across the ground, and of _course_ your foot manages to get caught underneath it. You fly forward with a startled yelp, _praying_ that your face won't collide into an edge or something, and then you're quite suddenly _not_ falling. 

Strong arms steady your descent and your brain gets a bit scrambled because there is a _person_ in the dark _grabbing_ you. A scream bubbles out and a hand rapidly slaps over your mouth to silence it. "It's me."

You mumble out a sigh of relief, _really_ glad that it's him and not one of his quarries that decided to reanimate spontaneously. Yet your joy is short lived once you remember that there's no fucking power.

His hand falls away, finding purchase on the curve of your hip. "Why's the power out?"

"It happens sometimes," he says, not at all concerned that this is a regular occurrence. "The wires are old."

"You mean this _ship_ is old."

He hums and pulls you closer. You still can't see him because it's darker than a black hole in here but your fingers can make out the edges of his pauldrons and the corded muscle of his bicep. You both stay there, in the dark, and you're fine like this. With just being held, safe and suspended in time.

And then he murmurs, all sweet and soft, "I wan't to kiss you."

Sparks ignite inside your stomach and it's like a ripcord jumpstarting your heart. That's it—you've died. You hit your head on that imaginary corner and you've died. How else could you explain the object of your fascination wanting to _kiss_ you. A Mandalorian too no less. _Wait_.

"B-but your helmet."

"It's dark," he says. He seems to have already made up his mind and you're not gonna argue with that. If he's confident about this, then _shit_ , so are you. You feel him shuffle around and hear the jostle of metal being placed on a crate or the ground, you aren't sure, and you tentatively reach out expecting to feel the familiar curve of his cuirass.

Instead your fingers fold over the soft lines of his undershirt. He sucks in a breath, so clear without the helmet, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, hot and alive, and real. He's human, just as you are.

You don't mean to jump as his hands sweep up your neck. You barely get out the first syllable of an apology when his hands slip into your hair, grasp at the back of your skull, and pull you forward.

He kisses you and your stomach swoops.

His lips are velvet and all thoughts are obliterated, turned into dust, and replaced with him. _Only him._ Your hands scrabble to find purchase, an anchor, and your fingers slide over a stubbled jaw and over chiseled cheekbones. He sighs into your mouth, and tilts your head, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides over yours, licks deep into your mouth, tasting you and then pulling away to nibble on your bottom lip.

 _Fuck_. Why the fuck didn't you get stabbed _earlier?_

He makes a sound low in his throat when you tug on the thick curls atop his head and kisses you harder. They're feverish and pressing, as if the whole galaxy would end tomorrow, and it might as well because you're in heaven. Your knees feel like jelly and you know he's holding the majority of your weight, but it's impossible to stand upright. His tongue curls around yours, hot and wet, then pulls it into his mouth and _sucks_.

Your jagged moan echoes through the dark and he raises his chin to break the kiss. He tugs on your bottom lip once again with the blunt edges of his teeth and begins to trail wet, lazy kisses down your jaw. You try to recapture his lips, but one of his hands tightens in your hair and tilts your head back, bearing the fragile skin of your throat for him. The graze of his teeth sends goosebumps down your spine and the gentle nibbles have you whimpering. He laves his tongue over the area and mouths down to the curve of where your shoulder meets your neck and bites down— _hard._

You yelp, but the hand tangled in your hair keeps you steady for him. You can't go anywhere like this. He presses soft kisses on the throbbing skin, sure to leave a mark, as if in apology then trails the tip of his tongue all the way up to your earlobe. His warm breath fans over your ear and he lays a sweet kiss over the cartilage. "Lay down."

 _Stars._ His voice is even more rich and honey sweet without the tinny and artificial filter in his helmet. You drop like a fucking rock and it's a miracle you manage not to knock into something on your way down. Your fist clenches the collar of his shirt and you drag him over you, feeling his quiet chuckle vibrate against the crook of your neck. Your legs fall open around his knees and his palms smooth over your thighs and hike them up higher around his waist. His mouth is on yours again, his elbows caging you in as he props himself above you and you feel the growing hardness between you.

You arch your hips, slowly grinding up into him. He inhales a shaky breath and licks deep into your mouth and digs his cock over your clothed center. Liquid heat is swirling in your belly and you and him are wearing _entirely_ too much right now. He seems to get the same memo because his hands are now slipping over the waistband of your pants and pulling them off, underwear and all. You squeak as cool air meets the slick already pooling at your center and he's molding himself back over you.

His head tilts and his tongue flicks across the shell of your ear. He thrusts his hips forward, your cunt surely leaving a wet spot on the fabric, and groans low in your hear. "Shit."

Mando grabs at the edge of your shirt and hauls it over your head, your bra quickly following. His mouth quickly latches on to your collarbone, sucking a mark there then making a steady trail down to your left breast. He hovers just above your peaked nipple and you whine in desperation. His fingertip is swirling a teasing circle over the areola on your other breast and you bite back all kinds of swears and curses, wishing this sweet torture would end. You're aching and desperate and when he finally, _finally_ pinches the pebbled skin between his forefinger and thumb, you're arching into his touch with a silent wail. The hot cavern of his mouth encases your nipple and carefully brings his teeth around it. You whisper his name and he tugs your nipple up then releases.

He mouths a kiss onto your sternum and rests his chin there. "Can I taste you? _Fuck_ _—_ more of you? Please—You—you were so _sweet_ on my fingers last time."

The image of him licking your arousal off his fingers after you passed out the day before sends a wave of burning heat through you. You don't even have to fucking _think_ because a garbled yes is already leaving your mouth.

You feel him smirk against your sternum and he's hurriedly shuffling lower. He hooks his hands underneath your knees and places them around his broad shoulders. His bare fingers trace tiny patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver and then you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. There's a moment just before, his face hovering close enough that you can feel his breath, anticipation gripping your chest, and then he licks a broad stripe from the base of your pussy all the way up to your clit.

His mouth Is searing hot and his tongue feels like liquid velvet as you shudder and dig your hands into his hair. He grunts against you as you drag him closer, all too happy to comply. His mouth encompasses your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves. He then trails lower, sucks on your labia, and sweeps down to your opening. The tip of his tongue traces your entrance, then down to lick at your wetness that dripped lower, and then back up.

It's good. So fucking good and when two of his thick fingers press at your entrance you nearly go blind from pleasure. The two digits slip in with ease, all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. He pushes them back in, then out, a steady pace that he never strays from. It leaves you bordering the edge of madness, the catch of his knuckles and calloused skin along your walls pure torture.

Your hips arch into him, trying to urge him to go faster. Instead, he slowly retracts his fingers and removes his mouth. You gasp in frustration as your cunt clenches around thing air, and you're begging, your words slurred and hardly understandable. You're so close to diving off the edge. You feel his mouth pull up into, what you can only imagine, is the biggest shit-eating grin.

"Please! P-please—I-I need..." You're babbling and he drags his fingers over your thigh, skims over your cunt, and traces a pattern into your other thigh. " _Mando. Fuck._ You—your fingers. I need—"

He complies.

Two fingers are thrust up into your dripping cunt, curving so deliciously into something that feels like unrefined electricity. His mouth sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body goes rigid. You're flying off that wall a million miles an hour—cumming onto his tongue and Mando keeps licking you through it even as you arch and squirm. Stars are bursting behind your eyelids and heat hotter than a wildfire spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're twitching and you hear Mando, feel the vibration of his groan, as a flood of your juices coat his tongue.

Your brain is lost in bliss and fuzzy pleasure as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into you're core and it hurts. You're too sensitive. Your nerves are rubbed raw and you're still throbbing, but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your previous orgasm to push him away. He takes the opportunity to move his fingers faster, suckle at your clit that _burns_ from overstimulation, and somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's razor sharp. Your thighs are shaking around him and as he twists his fingers inside you and curls into that tiny, little spot, your orgasm is wrenched out of you. It's _searing_ _—_ all the way to the fucking bone and you're positive you'll end up a burnt crisp. Your cunt pulses around Mando's fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually relent into a dull throb. You whimper and you have to push at his forehead because he's _still_ licking at your cunt. He pulls out his fingers with an embarrassing wet sound and then his crawling back over you.

Sudden exhaustion weighs over your eyelids and there's nothing more that you want to do beside fuck him, but you're already half asleep. "M'falling asleep again, Mando."

"S'fine," he says. "Just—just a little longer, ok? I won't—won't put it in."

"Ok..."

He moves to tug his pants down and you feel a dribble of wetness drip onto your hip. He grabs your hand that's lying limp on the floor and cups it around his thick, painfully hard cock. That's enough to wake you up again.

You swipe your thumb over the weeping slit, feeling it twitch. You curl your forefinger and thumb together, making a circle, and roll your wrist around the head of his cock, tugging and squeezing lightly. His groan is jagged and sharp and the sound causes a fresh wave of arousal to shoot straight to your cunt. Your hand then wraps around him, and gives the hard flesh, a few experimental pumps. His hips stutter into your grip, following your motions as if afraid you'd suddenly stop.

You feel fingers press at the seam of your lips and you readily open your mouth for him. You suck the digits into the hot cavern of your mouth, lick over the salty lines of his palm, and when he's satisfied he tugs them out of your mouth with a _pop_ and smears it over the base of his cock. With your saliva and the steady stream of precum that trickles out like a fountain, it's easy to slide your hand up and down from base to tip, paying careful attention to the ridge of skin on the frenulum.

" _Maker_ ," he gasps. "Almost there. Doing s'good. Good—good girl."

He's thrusting up faster into your hand and your bring up your other hand to gently cup his balls. His whole body quivers as you roll them gently in your palm and he's pitching forward to press his forehead to yours. Your nail lightly scrapes over the head of his cock and with one last squeeze to his balls, he's roughly grabbing your shoulders and cumming over your stomach. His balls pull up nice and tight and pulse. Spurts of hot cum gush over your skin and paint your ribcage and belly, his hips stuttering and pushing into your hand roughly.

"Ah. Shit— _shit_. Prob-bly look so go-good with my cum all over you."

You blush and his hips slowly stop thrusting as the last few strings of cum are milked out and drip over your fist. He's still sucking in air as you remove your hand and lick his spend off the slops of your knuckles. He tastes _good_ _—_ warm and thick on your tongue and next time you want it all in your mouth.

His chest heaves as he lowers himself beside you and tugs you close into his chest. You don't pay attention to the sticky mess on your stomach and he doesn't seem to mind. He brushes your hair from your forehead, tucks it behind your ear and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He whispers a quiet thank you and presses a soft kiss below your jaw and the ground is suddenly the most comfortable fucking thing in the world.

You drift off to sleep, cuddled into the Mandalorian's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


	3. Blis·ter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeeeeeeHAW. come scream at me if you want!

Now, you've seen your fair share of dead bodies—comes with growing up on an Imperial inhabited Outer Rim territory— _but._ And you really have to emphasize the _but_ here because...well, you've never exactly _been_ close enough to watch the glowing red of a plasma bolt tear through someone's chest point blank.

In retrospect, this _entire_ situation could've been easily avoided. You admit, if you hadn't insisted coming with Mando based upon the argument that the meager MREs were downright _atrocious_ , then you both would've avoided the metaphorical corner you've backed yourselves in.

You'd been to Coruscant before—briefly during a layover to another planet—but you'd stayed strictly above the thousands of underworld layers the planet offered. You didn't really fancy getting mugged or accidentally involving yourself in a Spice ring (honestly, at this point, you wouldn't be surprised if it happened). So, of course, with your Mandalorian companion being a bounty hunter and all (a fucking _terrifying_ one at that), blinking puck clipped on his waist, you wind up in a sleazy bar. And, to be fair, it really isn't _that_ bad. Sure, it stinks like old booze and gross, stale sweat, questionable stains on the floor and seats, but... you've been in worse.

"We won't be here for long," he'd promised you outside the entrance. The neon lights flash across the beskar armor, painting the metal in hues of a brilliant green, blue, then finishing off with a fluorescent purple before repeating. "Stay close."

Right, like you'd want to do anything _but_ leave his side. He sweeps a hair back from your forehead and you nod like a lovestruck fool. Well, you _are_ , but that's besides the point. "I can do that."

His head tilts in acknowledgment and then he stalks forward into the hazy gloom of the bar. You stay true to your words and trail after him.

It's curious, you note, walking beside him. All eyes jump to the flashy metal armor, then to the blinking bounty puck. Some curl away, hiding their face, attempting to become invisible while others do nothing to hide their blatant intrigue. But as their eyes slide over you shorter figure, wondering who exactly you are to be walking side by side with a Mandalorian, really drives it home. By proxy they're _afraid_ of you, fascinated, and the way the Twi'lek couple seated in the far back booth _flee_ at the sight of you as Mando draws close, gives you a momentary sense of hauteur.

Mando slips into the booth and you slide in right beside him. "Is your quarry here?"

"Will be," he says. He spreads out against the seat, throwing one arm over the top of the booth and the other near your knee. The Mandalorian looks at ease, a faux facade, but you know that can change at the drop of a hat. A viper waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Abruptly, two shot glasses are slammed onto the table and you jump. The waiter raises a brow. "No need to get twitchy, Sweetheart. Jus' a gift from that patron over there."

You grimace and follow to where the waiter's thumb juts out. A male Twi'lek sits at the bar, his deep midnight blue skin sticks out against the crisp white shirt he wears and when your eyes meet, he winks and flashes his smile of finely pointed teeth. _Hm_.

"Kinda _bold_ ," you mutter. Mando huffs.

Glancing to your left you're surprised the helmet hasn't fucking _melted_ off from how intensely Mando is staring. You're not sure if the Twi'lek is brave or just downright _stupid_ as he slides off the barstool and saunters over. His willowy fingers spread across the table as he leans against it, attention solely focused on you. This _cannot_ end well, you think.

"You are much too pretty to be a bounty hunter, no?" He purrs. "Why work with a man who wears a bucket over his head when you could live a life a leisure?"

"What," you snort, quirking a brow. "With you?"

He feigns innocence and shakes his head. "Me? No, no, no. Your beauty is much too... _exquisite_ for a humble man like myself."

Something brushes your knee and you look down to find Mando's pinky inching closer. You open your leg, pushing it closer and relish in the feel of his entire hand cupping your knee.

"But I _can_ gift you many things," the Twi'lek continues. Mando's hand slowly crawls down to your thigh. "Many _pleasures_."

"Right..." You sigh, trying to keep a straight face as Mando gives the meat of your leg a teasing squeeze. "I think I'm gonna stick with Bucket-head over here."

His striking red eyes flit over to the Mandalorian and he sneers. "You opt to stay with a faceless man? _Tch_. Such a pretty thing deserves so much more."

Your lips part as Mando rubs at the crook of where your thigh meets your hip. "N-no thanks."

The blue Lekku slung over his shoulders twitch and his nostrils flare. "Surely—"

"She said no." Mando interrupts, his cool words cutting through the air. "Get lost."

"I was not speaking to _you_ , Mandalorian," he snarls. "The lady can speak for herself, no?"

You could, _sure_ , but as Mando cups your clothed pussy and presses down hard, all thoughts and handle on language is scattered to the wind. With his other hand he sets his blaster down onto the table, finger hovering over the trigger, making his point clearer than fucking crystal.

" _Leave_."

The Twi'lek clicks his tongue and mutters something in Ryl, smart enough to pick up the hint. He flashes you both a pointed glare and turns on his heel. "You will regret this."

"Creep," you mumble, spreading your legs further for the Mandalorian's nimble fingers.

He grunts and rocks the heel of his palm against you. "Usually I'm the one who gets unsolicited passes."

"What can I say?" Yoh laugh, feeling his hand slip into the waistband of your pants and trace a circle over your clit. "I'm-I'm apparently a-an _exquisite beauty._ "

He's looming over you know, drawing up close and tight and you're once again reminded how _broad_ he is. If his glove were off he'd be able to feel your wetness already seeping through the fabric of your underwear and a heated flush warms your face as you remember where _exactly_ you are. Somehow knowing the fact that anyone could glance under the table and see his hand down your pants sparks something dark and hungry in your belly. You press your nose into his shoulder and whine.

"You like this?" He asks, rough and low. "You like it when I play with your cunt in public? I'm sure your _friend_ wishes he could have you like this. Huh?"

Your hips are rocking against his fingers and your eyes briefly flutter open. You see a familiar blue skinned Twi'lek rounding the corner and of fucking _course_ this happens. You stiffen, noting the other two who follow. "Mando."

He notices the way your voice tips into caution and he pulls away. "What's wrong?"

The Mandalorian follows your line of sight and sighs. You shrink into his side as the posse of three roll up—a massive Devaronian, a pale skinned Umbaran, and lastly, your old _buddy_. The Twi'lek is grinning like a damn fool as if he's figured out the whole universe.

"I told you to leave." Mando bites out. "Or are you too thickheaded to comprehend a simple order?"

"Ah, and I told you that you would regret it, no?" The Twi'lek purrs.

"Silence, Ree," the Umbaran rasps, holding up a spidery white hand. "We do not treat our _guests_ like this, hm?"

Ree rolls his eyes.

"Introductions are in order I suppose," the Umbaran continues, his haunting eyes sizing up the Mandalorian like a spider would its prey. "I am Grim-Vod Jann, that is Zohr, and you have already met my good _friend,_ Ree."

Alarm bells are blaring in your head. _Fuckfuckfuckfuck_. Stars, what the _hell_ were you going to do? All this because you turned down some stupid bachelor?

Mando says nothing.

"You see, I am afraid you've upset poor Ree," Grim-Vod hums. "He tells me you threatened him and, if I remember correctly, this fine establishment is owned by, _well_ , myself of course."

"So?" Mando drawls out. "You could end up dead just the same."

The Umbaran laughs, wispy and dry. "Perhaps you should work on your manners, Mandalorian."

Grim-Vod's ghostly eyes flick across your face and with a near imperceptible nod the Devaronian— _Zohr_ your brain helpfully provides, wraps a meaty hand around your upper arm and all but catapults you out of the seat. The Mandalorian isn't quick enough to do anything about it because neither of you fucking _expected_ this, but here you are, strong-armed into submission. Your arms are twisted behind your back and as you wiggle and thrash, Zohr's grip tightens to the point of pain. Your joints give and bend in resistance but there's nothing you can do except wince and stay still.

Mando launches up, rigid and poised, one blaster pointed at the Devaronian's skull, the other aimed at their greasy leader who's smile is as slick and dark as oil. "Let her go."

The way he slinks forward is rat-like and your stomach curls as he nears you. "This pretty little thing?"

Sulfur and something acrid hits your senses as the Umbaran leans _far_ too close into your personal space bubble and drags a spidery finger down your cheek. His hollow white eyes crawl over your face then dip lower, lecherous and slimier than a leaky trash bag abandoned in an alley way. Out of the corner of your eye you see Mando's fingers tighten around his blaster.

"Mandalorian," Grim-Vod hums, his long fingernail trailing over the collar of your jacket and capturing a lock of your hair, "I have a proposition."

" _No_." His tone his firm and unyielding, anger lacing the words with uncovered threats. You recognize it well enough. "She's not part of this."

Grim-Vod's laugh is raspy and wet as he lazily turns to face the Mandalorian. "I do not think that you are in a position to be making such assumptions, no? Come, we shall have a _civil_ conversation. You were so _rude_ to me and my associates."

"Tell me why I shouldn't just shoot you now. Save some time."

His pale lips curl into a haunting smirk and his eyes jump to the Devaronian. "Zohr."

A strangled cry rips free from your vocal cords as both your arms are twisted sharply up your back and are bent into a _very_ _wrong_ angle. The joints in your shoulders squeal and pop in protest and he _keeps_ twisting until your knees buckle and you crumple onto the dirty floor. If your arms weren't fucking _throbbing_ with sharp, burning pain, then you'd really take the time to notice how the fabric covering your knees sticks to the floor from some mystery liquid. You blink back involuntary tears and jerk away as Grim-Vod kneels to your left.

"Come now," he coos, capturing your cheeks between his hand. His thumb digs into the pressure point beneath your cheek bone as his other fingers wrap tightly around your chin and jaw. "Tell your _friend_ we only wish to talk."

Your eyes land on the indifferent mask. He's looking at you—you can feel it. To the untrained eye he _would_ look impartial to your suffering but his shoulders are drawn tight, bristling with the rising swell of rage.

Guilt twists in your chest.

No. You will _not_ let Mando surrender to a group of _thugs_ despite the very real threat of both your arms being snapped like twigs. You may not be as strong or as brutal as the Mandalorian but in no way are you weak. You're not _useless_.

"Go on—"

Your teeth clamp down onto Grim-Vod's hand, tearing through flesh and meeting bone. Strange colored blood floods your mouth and with a howl the Umbaran rips his hand back. His lips are curled into a pained snarl and he hisses out curses in a language you don't understand, smug satisfaction lining your face.

"Worthless scum!" Grim-Vod shouts and _that_ you _certainly_ understand.

You _also_ understand the moment the Umbaran's hand strikes you, gold ringed fingers cutting across your cheek, managing to rattle your brain like pebbles in a coin jar. _Oof_. You'll feel that one later for sure.

The momentary distraction gives Mando enough time to slip away and you hear Ree curse. "Where'd he go?"

One second later a blaster bolt explodes into his back and with a cry the Twi'lek crumples onto the floor, his back scorched and blackened. You don't have enough time to react or even _think_ about what just happened before three shots are rapidly fired at the Devaronian. How the plasma bolts seemingly bounce off his fucking face _astounds_ you. He howls and releases one of your arms to snatch at his own weapon, whipping you around like some sort of meat shield. If it'd been anyone else shooting you'd probably be afraid of them hitting _you,_ but this is Mando. He's _precise_ and _deadly_.

Shiny metal arms are suddenly wrapping around Zohr's neck. His meaty red hand lets your arm go in favor of trying to rip off Mando's forearm that's no doubt cutting off his airway. Mando grunts as an elbow jams itself into his ribs.

He manages to shout your name (more of a _wheeze_ really _)_ and orders— "Run! _"_

You're hesitant at first and your feet are frozen to the ground. You don't want him to _die_ on your behalf but as of now, you're in the line of fire—a very high risk of becoming a casualty. The Devaronian slams Mando into the wall, a strangled _oof_ escaping through the helmet.

_"Go!"_

With one last, regretful glance, you turn on your heel and _book it_.

But, as you really should've figured out by now, you have the worst luck. _Truly_.

A ghostly pale hand whips out and snatches your ankle. With a startled cry you fumble onto the floor, knocking you nose _painfully_ hard against the grimy floor. Your eyes water, clouding your vision and you have just enough time to roll onto your back and ram your boot into the Umbaran's chest.

He snarls, evades your next kick and throws himself over your legs. For how gangly he is, he weighs enough to pin your legs down. Your heart is lurching in your chest, slamming against your ribcage as your try to connect your fist into his face, his chest, _anywhere_. Your knuckles graze against his chin and somehow he manages to get his hand around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to threaten your precious intake of air.

You scrabble to break his hold, digging your nails into the flesh of his wrist but he never wavers. Never blinks those pearly white eyes and suddenly he bears down hard around your throat. "Stupid girl."

Panic, razor sharp and hot spreads through your body like a live wire. You try calling for Mando, but only a strangled gurgle escapes your lips. You can hear your pulse in your ears as your body twitches and thrashes at the lack of oxygen.

"I wonder..." Grim-Vod hisses, leaning close enough that you can feel his rancid breath fan over your face. "Should I kill you? Or should I sell you?"

You try to swipe at his face and he pins your wrist down with ease. "Such a pretty face will earn a bit of coin, no? Or— _oh!_ I know."

Black spots are starting to line the edges of your vision and every second that drags one your body becomes weaker. Your insides curls at his predatory smile. "You will be mine. My personal pet—"

The Umbaran is cut off and jolts. His eyes go wide and the hand around your throat goes lax. With a stuttered inhale he slumps forward. Dead.

A rush of oxygen floods your lungs and you heave and cough, chasing away the burning nerves that trails down the entirety of your esophagus. A familiar boot kicks Grim-Vod's corpse off your shaking body and an equally familiar gloved hand hauls you up from the ground. You don't have any say before he slings you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and sprints out the door.

You only catch a glimpse of the aftermath—it's _chaos_. Mando seems to have knocked over every single chair, table, and glass available along with the bodies strewn across the floor. You look away.

Mando makes it back to the Crest in breakneck speed and only sets you down once you're both safely inside. He punches at the control panel, closing the loading ramp, then stalks over to the ladder.

"W-wait," you rasp. "What about th-the quarry?"

"Forget about the quarry."

Well. Can't argue with that you suppose.

It takes less than a minute to get the ship running, another minute to check on the little green monster who still sleeps peacefully in his crib and some of your nerves are soothed at the sight. With a sigh you shut the panel and follow Mando into the cockpit.

He races through the pre-flight checklist, flicks and taps at the various buttons and levers until the Crest slowly lifts off. He points it away from the city of Coruscant, millions of neon lights flashing in the night and soon enough you're tunneling into hyperspace.

The blue hue of stars streak across the transparisteel, hypnotic and bright and it's almost enough to calm your racing heart. For a moment the world around you is quiet. So quiet until Mando's chair spins around with a hiss of air, and he's facing you. The Mandalorian shoots up, steps forward and says your name like he's assuring you're really here.  
He cradles your face, rough leather sweeping across your soft skin. Adrenaline still pumps through your veins and the brief fear that he'll snap your neck appears but you quickly stamp it out. _He won't hurt you_. _He won't_

You curl your hands around his wrists and lean into his palm. "I'm ok."

Mando makes a noise that crackles under the vocoder and grazes a thumb over the fresh nick across your cheekbone. It's tiny, stings a bit, _sure--_ but it's no worse than the injuries you suffered previously after the dreaded Sabaac game. Your skin prickles at the thought of your still healing knife wound.

With a sigh he tilts his head down and you're sure he's about to fucking head-butt you into the damn stratosphere but all he does is rest the crown of his helmet against your forehead. The metal is cool against your skin and your heart swells at the intimacy. Your eyes slip shut and the world around you slows to a stop. There's only you and him; the gentle inhales and exhales through the vocoder, his steady heartbeat you can feel thrumming through the gaps in his vambraces in which your fingers press against, and the firm beskar molded against your body.

The dull hum of the ship and occasional beeping fill the gentle quiet, creating a symphony of sound and safety and you're happy to drown in it—let it swallow you whole, but of course with a gentle sway of Mando's head, the moment fades and is swept out to sea. His soft words vibrate against the helmet and the richness of it is like a punch through the chest.

"I'm sorry," he say as he pulls back slightly. He's baring his vulnerability for you—that insecurity that lurks beneath the layers of shiny beksar and firm planes of muscle. "That shouldn't have— _I_ should have—I put you in _danger_."

He's thumbing over the cut again and your heart aches for him. He shouldn't be apologizing—not for this. "Hey—"

Mando starts to ramble out more apologies but you place your hand against the sharp lines of where his cheeks would be and he pauses. " _Hey_ _—"_ Don't be sorry. I'm fine, you're fine—they're gone and the kid's still sleeping."

He huffs under his breath and reaches up to grab your hand. He gives it a squeeze. "Are you afraid of me? Of what I did?"

You look away. _Yeah_ _—_ seeing someone get shot _is_ scary, terrifying and maybe before you had been—but now? "No. _No,_ I mean _,_ I _w-was_. You _are_ scary—wouldn't want you coming after my sorry ass—but you won't hurt me. You don't hurt people without reason. I know that and I know you're a good man despite all your questionable _friends._ I...I _trust_ you."

You're joking about the friend thing of course but he's suddenly _very_ quiet and you're left to worry. Seconds crawl by and you're panicking now. _Shitshitshit_ , you should not have said anything. Should have just kept your stupid mouth shut and—

Strong arms wrestle you into his chest and you're quick enough to turn your face to narrowly avoid face-planting into the breastplate of his cuirass. One palm sweeps across your back and settles on the dip of your spine while the other hooks around your shoulder, drawing you so close you're not sure where your body begins and his ends.He rests his head in the crook of your neck and you bury your nose into the dark swath of fabric lining his throat and—fuck. _Stars_ , why does he smell so good? This shouldn't be real. Fucking _illegal_ is what it should be.

Your fingers wiggle up underneath the metal and brush soft circles over the fabric covering the sides of his ribs. The muscles jump beneath your hands and your hear his sharp inhale. You swear he tries to pull you closer but you're already so squished against him—almost to the point where it's difficult to breath.

"When they grabbed you—I—"he inhales and starts again, "I wouldn't have let them take you. _Never_. Won't let them put their hands on you _ever_ again."

You swallow and you know he isn't just talking about the guys in the bar, because, well—they're _dead,_ but you're so damn flattered. "I wish I could tell you the same. I—oh wait—I know. I'll just bite people's hands off. Yeah, you hold them and I bite."

He chuckles and sweeps a hand up to the back of your head, slipping his fingers through the silky strands. "Can't believe you did that. My _brave girl_."

Whoop. Good fucking bye.

"Remind me—" Mando pauses as your fingers find the seam of his undershirt and slip against the impossibly warm skin. "To-to give you a stim. Don't know what that guy could've been infected with."

He's right, you don't know what the Umbaran could've carried—probably should be more worried—but you're quickly falling victim to the softness of his skin, the warmth of it and you don't really care right now. Your hand flutters to his front, follows the sparse trail of hair there and toys with the waistband of his trousers. He grunts and keens into your touch.

You hide your smile by burying your nose further into his covered throat and suddenly cup his cock through the fabric. You give him a careful squeeze and he huffs in encouragement. The fingers in your hair tighten as you begin to rub slowly— _up and down, up and down_ , until you feel the thick swell of his cock pressing against your palm.

"Fuck," he breathes and you're just about to pull down his trousers when his hand catches your wrist. It's a loose hold and he makes no move to break away. " _Shit_ _—_ are you—are you sure you're alright?"

You wan't to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Your hand is halfway down his pants, _groping_ him, and he still has the decency to make sure you're okay. _You_.

Pulling away enough to look up into his visor, you flash him a sweet smile. " _Really_. I am."

There's another slow pause and then he _finally_ drops your wrist and your hand wiggles in. His thighs shudder and his half hard cock jumps as your fingers wrap around his bare flesh and give him a few experimental strokes. His inhale is shaky as his hand slips up to fondle your breast.

"Take your shirt off," he purrs and you want to melt into him.

"I—ah—told you to buy me a drink first," you say, gasping as he pinches your nipple through your shirt.

Mando pulls you into the pilot's chair and grips your thighs to haul you into his lap. It's uncomfortable and your thighs barely slip through the spaces between the armrests and the seat, but fuck it—you don't care.

He makes a punched out sound as you grind into his lap. "L-later."

"You said that last time," you tease, letting him pull your shit up and off your arms. Your bra quickly follows and his dirty, rough leather clad fingers cup your tits. "Beginning to think it-it won't happen."

" _Later._ Not never _,"_ is all he manages to growl out. "Maybe if you--if you stop _distracting_ me."

You lean back on his thighs and flash him a wry grin. With an impartial hum you sweep your hands up his vambraces, careful not to press any mystery buttons that'll surely _kill_ you, and tug at the loose fabric covering his fingertips. He lets you pull them off and set them to the side and then he's sweeping his calloused palms up your ribcage and across the supple expanse of skin.

Biting your lip, you pull down his trousers as far as the metal plating allows and are greeted with the hard line of his cock, gorgeous like the rest of him. And _holy hell_ _—_ he's thicker than you thought. You wrap your fingers around him and your longest finger barely meets your thumb and the thought of that inside you makes your core clench. A bead of liquid already shines at the tip and the sight makes your mouth water. _Maker_ , you want him in your mouth.

Carefully you slip off his lap and settle yourself between his knees. With a sigh he trails his forefinger along your cheek and tucks a hair behind your ear. "I'd rather fuck you instead."

A sly smile pulls at your lips, "Later," and with that you start to gently jerk him off. Your grip is firm and tight and Mando all but slumps into the chair. 

Eagerly you lean forward and lick a line from the velvety skin of his balls all the way up to the tip. You suckle at the head, dipping your tongue into the slit then down to trace the ridge of his frenulum all the while your hand tugs at the base.

The vocoder crackles as he tangles his fingers into your hair. You open your jaw a bit wider and take him down a few inches, feeling your lips stretch around his cock. You use the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft to make the fit slide in easier but he's _still_ only halfway into your mouth when he hits the back of your throat.

" _Shit_ _—"_ He hisses out, grip tightening. "Y-your mouth— _good_. S'good."

His head is tilted back on the seat and you can see the sliver of skin that peeks out—patchy black facial hair to match the pristine, sunkissed appearing skin. You imagine his eyes—probably a richly colored chestnut brown, deep and magnificent like the man himself. You let out a soft whine and slip a hand into your pants, pressing against your throbbing clit as you start to carefully bob your head up and down.

His chest is heaving with exertion and his hips are rocking into your throat, pushing and rolling his cock deeper into your mouth until his shaft is nearly seated all the way in. You swallow around him and his back arches almost to the point where his ass lifts off the fucking seat in response.

"Fuck. _Fucking_ _—_ " His knuckles are turning white from how tight he's gripping the armrest. "You're p-perfect. Fu-fucking _perfect_ for m-me."

You preen under his praise and make a noise low in your throat. You pull your mouth off his cock with a soft _pop_ and you trail your tongue lower down to his balls while your hand focuses its attention on the tip. The pad of your thumb rubs at the small ridge of skin there and when you take one of his balls into the wet heat of your mouth, a moan, soft and drawn out echoes throughout the cockpit.

His head dips forward and your eyes blink up to meet his gaze. "M'gonna cum if you—if you keep..."

He trails off as you pointedly give his shaft a squeeze. "Isn't that the point?"

The Mandalorian sucks in a sharp breath, unable to get in another word before you're swallowing him down again. The skin beneath your tongue tightens and twitches and both his hands shoot out and grab at your hair. He goes rigid. " _Fuck_ _—_ Maker, I'm—"

You moan around him and he's cumming down your throat. His cock throbs and pulses in your mouth, his load coating your tongue as he rasps out your name all gravely and low. You take all that he has to give, draining his balls until he's slumped, and trembling in the chair, brain soaring through cloud _fucking_ nine.

Giving his softening cock a few more gentle licks you tuck him back into his pants and settle into his lap. With a sigh he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. He tucks your head beneath his chin while one hand steadily smooths out your hair and the other traces soft patterns into the bare skin of your shoulder. You'd think cuddling up against beskar would prove to be uncomfy and unforgiving, but right now you wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.

"Hey, Mando," you say, tracing the rectangular indent connecting the two halves of the cuirass that rise and fall gently in step with his breathing.

"Hm."

"I'm _still_ hungry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


	4. ten·der

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy hey fuckos. here's some grade a garbage. enjoy and come scream at me if you wish

Something tickles across your hip. 

You're slow to wake as your consciousness wades through the gelatinous haze of dreamland, but it's _insistent_. Things come to your mind in pieces—the hard line of a warm figure curled against your back, the firmness of a muscled thigh wedged between your leg, and the gentle breathing that fans over the top of your head. 

Long fingers, calloused and weathered, whisper over the healing knife wound, no longer a nasty scab, but the skin is still fragile and hypersensitive. Goosebumps rush down the entirety of your body and he's _fascinated._ He shifts and props himself up on one elbow and presses his nose into the strands of your hair, breathing in the smell of you as his hand sweeps up your shoulder. It travels down, traces a careful pattern into the crook of your elbow and carries on to your wrist. His fingers skim over your knuckles, feather light and curious as he maps out the shape of your hand. 

Your fingers twitch as he intertwines his with yours, his palm a steady heat over the slopes of your knuckles. You're not sure if he knows you're awake and you worry if you make any sort of motion that gives you away, he'll stop. This, whatever it is, still feels precarious—skirting the edge of a blade between disaster and your utopia. Your body _craves_ his touch—almost burns at how much you want to curl into his hand, but—

Your heart _splits_ at the idea of scaring him away, so you remain limp and complacent—leveling out your breathing to feign sleep. 

He's too clever for that.

Mando gives your hand a gentle squeeze and trails his tongue over the shell of your ear. He gives the cartilage a playful nip and your inhale stutters. "I know you're awake." 

"M'not," you sigh, returning the gentle squeeze. The panic settled low in your chest fizzles out. "M'still asleep." 

His low hum reverberates in your ear, like liquid sunshine, warming your insides all the way to the bone. His stubble scratches over your cheek as he plants his lips over your jaw. You squirm and let out a quiet giggle at the rough scratchiness. "Kiss me."

The angle is awkward and you definitely miss his mouth the first try because it's so fucking _dark_ in here. He chuckles and releases your hand in favor of gently cradling your chin to guide you forward. 

"Try again." 

Your discontented grunt tapers off into a soft moan as his plush lips—a bit dry and cracked, capture yours. It's slow and unhurried and your body furls open for him like it's second nature. As his hand carves a curious path up to the swell of your breast you vaguely recall putting on a shirt beforehand. His thumb brushes a circle around your stiffening nipple and _oh_ — that's right.

You _did_ put a shirt on beforehand because the Razor Crest is colder than _Hoth._ Maybe a bit closer to Orto Plutonia if you're lucky. 

"Mando..." you breathe, arching into his palm. "Did—did you take my shirt off?" 

"Wanted to feel you." His teeth nip at your shoulder and his fingers stall for a brief moment. "Is...is that ok?" 

"Touch me whenever you want," you sigh. " _Please_. Just don't—don't stop." 

Your voice comes out strained and needy and you have half a thought to be embarrassed—he's an addiction you can't shake—but the way he mouths a sweet kiss at the base of your throat, you know he's flattered. "Careful. I might take you up on that." 

A whine slips out as his palm engulfs your breast and squeezes. "O-offer still stands." 

Mando's hand pinches your pebbled nipple until he pulls out a gasp. His fingers skim down towards the waistband of your pants, brushing against the supple skin of your stomach. You're ticklish here and you try not squirm away or elbow him in the gut. Not exactly _ideal_ for the situation and you're not looking to start off the day by breaking his ribs. 

"You know," he rasps, rubbing a circle just below your navel, "you make the _prettiest_ sounds when you sleep."

Your heart flutters and twists inside your chest like some strangled little thing. You wiggle your hips to help as he yanks your trousers over your ass, and props your top leg over his hip, exposing your already throbbing cunt. He's barely touched you and you're _dripping_. 

A finger teases the outside of your folds, flushed and swollen. He groans. "Fuck, you're wet."

 _Maker_ , you're so _fucking_ turned on right now.

His teeth catch your earlobe and _grinds_ the thick, pulsing flesh of his cock along your aching pussy. The broad head of it bumps against your clit and he swears as your wetness coats him. "I wonder wha-what kind of sounds you make when I fuck you." 

Your arch your back and rock your hips, hoping that somehow you could slip the head of his cock into your tight, wet, hole. You _need_ him inside you. _Now_. "Why don't you find—find out?"

His inhale is sharp as his middle finger presses down on your clit, pausing to concentrate his efforts there. He reaches lower to circle your soaking entrance, fingertips just _barely_ pushing in to the soft, clenching muscles. You're drenched enough to take two of his fingers with ease—all the way up to his second knuckles. 

"You're _tight_ ," Mando notes with a groan, thrusting up and curling his fingertips. "Can you fit another?"

His index finger presses against your entrance as you mumble out your consent. It sounds like you've just ran a whole damn marathon with the way your strained breathing echoes through the tiny space. Mando inhales sharply as he seats his third digit inside your fluttering walls. A rush of liquid fire pools in your belly, that ache deep in your core sated for only a brief while. 

You can _hear_ your wetness as he starts to thrust in and out—a gentle pace bordering teasing, only adding to the flames that grow rapid and insatiable. It's not _enough_. What you need is the hard cock currently poking your lower back. 

"Mando," you whimper, rolling your hips against his hand. " _Please_. Please, I-I’ll—”

He doesn’t give your please any thought as his palm rocks against your clit, the sensations electric and shoving you into a point of no return. You arch and squirm against him as he pulls and drags your pleasure out, knowing just how much he can make your body sing for him. His lips suck a bruise on the juncture of your shoulder, wedging his fingers as far up as they’ll go as your pussy clamps down _hard_ around them. 

You’re shoved off that edge so roughly and without warning that you can’t help but cry out for him. Your wiggle and twitch in his arms, your legs seizing as wicked hot bliss courses in your veins, blotting out your already blackened vision until the only thing you see is white. He’s murmuring praise against your spine as you rock against his digits, chasing those last dregs of pleasure until your spent and panting.

“Fuck—your cunt feels so soft around my fingers. You-you want my cock here too?” Mando brushes the tips of his moistened fingers along the sensitive flesh.

That shouldn’t even be a _question_ — 

“ _Yes_ — _”_

Without hesitation, he throws half his weight over you, pinning you to the tiny cot without trying. One hand locks around your waist, pulling your backside as close as he can, guiding the thick head to your slick entrance. You tense as the tip of it pushes against the soft ring of muscle. He’s big—you can’t— _shit_ —you don’t think he’ll _fit_. 

“Relax,” he huffs against the top of your spine. “Relax and—and l-let me—good girl. _Good girl_.”

It pinches and the angle he’s pushing in at makes you even _tighter_ , but your cunt screams to be filled. Needs the entirety of him seated inside of you. It’s worth the pain. 

You whine as he slips in that first glorious inch—beginning to shallowly rock his hips until your walls flutter around him and swallow him deeper. You feel your wetness coat your inner thighs as his hand hooks around your hip and slides down to toy with your clit. You’re sore here, the gentle pressure _too much_ , but with enough coaxing, the Mandalorian has got you back into singing with each pass of his fingers.

You don’t even realize he’s bottoming out until his hips are pressing against your ass, fragile and hiccuped moans fanning across your ear as he does so. _Stars_ —how are you so _full?_ You swear you can feel him in your fucking _guts_ , and when he starts to move it’s like pulling a tripwire to a box full of explosives. 

Your hand whips back to grab his wrist— _anything_ —to ground you. “You t-take it so—so fucking _well_ . _Good_.”

Mando rolls his hips, swearing as the haze of arousal grips his common sense hard enough to kill. His cock is reaching places you never knew you _had_ —which is why—just as Mando pulls out then thrusts in hard enough to rearrange your goddamn _brain_ —you’re close to screaming as his comm system beeps and buzzes. 

“No..no—” You keen, burying your face into the blankets in frustration. You push back against him, hoping to convince him to just _fuck you_ — 

“I-I have to,” he sighs, grunting and placing an apologetic kiss on your shoulder. “I—”

Your almost to the point of tears as he pulls out, cursing at the loss of your velvety warmth and tucking his painfully hard cock back into his pants. 

“No. _Please_ ,” you beg, reaching blindly to paw at his arm. “You need—I need you to fuck me. I _need_ it.”

He sighs again like it’s the galaxy’s most sinful crime, to leave you here, strung out and mewling for him. At the moment it _is_ — but he has a job to do.

“Later,” Mando growls, turning you over to give you once last hungry kiss, one that leaves you even _emptier_ than before. “After the job, I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t _walk_.” 

You could never complain about that. 

You just hope he’ll be back to fulfill that promise. And _soon_. 

-=-=-=-

He’s gone for three days—nearly four by the time the binary suns melt against the horizon, casting the sand into brilliant shades of golden light and hazy surfaces like water upon a shore. 

It’s enticing to wander out, explore the mirages and massive shimmering slopes of sand that mimic the waves of an ocean, but you know better. One false step and you could wind up halfway down a Sarlacc pit before you can _blink_. 

It’s a tricky thing, the sand.

It’s hot too. 

You’ve already had to strip down to your base layers and blast the internal temperatures near freezing to appease the little green gremlin attached to your hip. He’s _fussy_ and you’ve already had an _incident_ regarding a blaster, hot and ready to fire that the child somehow obtained. (You put that on the list of things to bring up with Mando). 

Regardless, you weren’t all that keen on getting shot whether or not his weird little fingers could reach the trigger. 

The whole fiasco puts you on edge and just when you think you can settle down, _relax_ a bit in the sweltering inferno, there’s a horrid _bang_ that rattles the entirety of the ship. Spooked and hoping, _praying_ Mando didn’t dock over a womp rat nest, you meander down to the cargo hold, gripping the confiscated blaster like a lifeline. 

Maker _forbid_ it’s Tuskan Raiders. They aren’t the most hospitable creatures and they’re most likely not in the mood for _tea_ but you lower the loading ramp anyways. Least you could do is wave around your gun and act like you know what you’re doing. (You don’t). 

It’s worse. _So much worse._

They’ve taken the _half_ of the _fucking_ hull. 

You’ve interacted with Jawas before—used to trade with them as a kid—but they could've at least _knocked_ before _stripping_ the ship. 

“Hey! That’s mine!”

You wrestle down the urge to chicken punt the little creatures into the next fucking _galaxy_ as they swarm around, chittering and giggling at your frazzled state. Your Jawaese is rusty—not the most eloquent and you already feel your exposed skin baking from the suns like a solitary egg in a frying pan. 

By the time you manage to get the kriffing hull back—not without bartering off a shoe buckle, a power converter, and a shuura fruit (they _insisted_ on it for whatever reason)—the planet plummets into freezing darkness.

It’s then you start to worry. 

You sit on the edge of the loading ramp, thumbing at the little comm between your fingers, tossing around the idea of calling him. He’s been gone for this long before, but those rare occasions he’d always check in with a brief— _Is the kid okay? Are you ok?_

The coppery taste of blood stains your tongue as your teeth worry over your bottom lip. A weight has settled deep in your chest, bearing down on your lungs, your heart, until it’s nearly impossible to breathe. He can take care of himself—you know this—but what if he’s hurt? Trapped in some stretch of cavernous terrain that proves to be unclimbable. 

Or, _Maker_ — you don’t even want to think about the chance that he could be _dead_. 

Frowning, you bring the comm to your mouth. You let it rest on your lip and sigh, hesitating. It flashes red as you hold down the toggle. “Mando?” 

You wait for an agonizing three minutes, your worry shifting towards dread with each greuling second. You try again and there’s nothing but radio silence. 

You glance down at the kid sitting patiently to your left and you know—you know, even though you love the little stinker with every fiber of your being, it’ll be an impossible job to take care of him alone. The child blinks those big, round eyes and grabs at your pant leg like he can feel your heart splitting in two. You put on your best smile. 

“Let’s go find your dad, huh?” 

-=-=-=-

_“Mando?”_

For a moment, fleeting and temporary, he indulges the idea of being back on the Crest. There, surrounded by your warmth, your scent, your soft smiles that only he can pull from you like an experienced musician plucking at the intricacies of a stringed instrument. You’re quick to put on a grin, yes, but they’re superficial—meant to appease and soothe any wayward negativities pointed in your direction. The way you look at him...well... _fuck._

No one’s ever looked at him like _that_ (his mother _maybe_ ). He’s used to the fearful dearting of eyes and nervous twitching that comes with merely _walking_ down a crowded street. Even the braver ones, dumb with greed and stupid enough to think they have a chance at picking his armor clean of his body are more commonplace than what you grace him with. 

A star-crossed love between longing and an ache like a pulled tooth fester in his chest. How is it so easy for you to wiggle into his defenses he’s amassed since he’d been a child? There’s no inkling of theory present in his head. He doesn’t _know_ . 

He wants to be back in his ship, near _desperate_ for it, but with a sigh the fantasy dissipates like a plume of smoke. 

He’s here, trapped in some fool’s _basement_. 

Trapped shouldn’t be the word for it he surmises. More of a mild inconvenience if anything. 

He’d been tailing the quarry for two days—he’d been _clever_ Mando admits — jumping from one crowd to the next before Mando could zero in on the former smuggler. It borders being _fun_ in Mando’s mind—the game of cat and mouse and the inevitable capture of his target. But one can only handle so much cantina hopping. 

By the time the smuggler settles into a forgotten corner in Mos Eisley, the binary suns are melting against the domed structures in the little city on the second day. Mando had _thought_ it’d be easy. The smuggler had been trapped between his blaster and a dead ended alley, no weapons and no wit to speak of. 

At least _some_ of his bounties tried to weasel their way out with fancy words or show some sort of self-preservation. 

Mando should’ve realized then why the quarry had looked so _smug_. 

The Mandalorian blames his dulled awareness and lucidity on the heat.

An immobilizer meant for kriffing _Gundarks,_ pierces through the gaps in his armour, cutting through fabric and skin. He has enough time to place a well aimed punch over his assailent’s jaw, sending him reeling backwards, but the drug works _fast_. He truly had no chance whatsoever. 

Just for the sake of pride he _tries_ . It’s how the bigger of three, a massive Zabrak, manages to yank the Mandalorian off the fucking _ground_ and toss him against the wall like he weighed no more than a pebble. He _hears_ the sickening crunch and pop of his shoulder separating from it’s socket, but the pain receptors in his brain are doing a _horrid_ job thanks to the immobilizer. 

A mere minute later, he’s careening forward into loopy unconsciousness, slumped against the wall, faces and scenery blurring together in a great wash of _sand_. He hates Tatooine. 

There’s no way to tell how long he’s out for. Could be _days_ for all he knows. He’s just happy, despite his obvious predicament, that the smugglers were _kind_ enough to leave his helmet on. 

_“Shiny?”_

Your voice crackles through the commlink resting on the table along with all his other possessions. The items they _found_ , that is. 

He’s escaped cells far more high end than this one made from junk metal and glue, but his dislocated shoulder currently locked in stasis-cuffs drives a wedge into his plans. The immobilizer still courses through his veins, dragging him through an aching withdrawal, each movement a fiery kick to his chest. Not to mention, if he does manage to escape, there’s no telling if they would follow him back to the ship. 

He can’t put you in danger. Not again. You don’t deserve that and neither does the kid. 

And so he waits. 

Waits through the spitting curses the smugglers throw at him, waits until he knows his shoulder is a mess of purpled skin and stretched or torn ligaments frozen in place by his armor. He waits until there’s a loud knock that echoes through the space, a barked out order, harshly delt until the smugglers rush to open the mite-eaten door. 

There’s arguing—a disbelieving laugh—and sudden blaster fire. Mando hears the plasma bolt connect with the roof of the building, spraying mud and sand on the floor. There’s a chorus of swears and they finally let whoever came a knocking into their lair. 

The Zabrak, his face pulled taught in confusion drawls out a question and the necommer answers with a curt response, dry and sharp like kindling. 

Mando _knows_ that voice. 

He’s heard it whisper across his bare skin, coo at his son, mouth a silly joke that makes him scoff in disbelief. He’s _heard_ the gentle sighs and stuttered moans when he’s between your legs. He knows _you_. 

Which is why, when a figure steps in his line of sight, swallowed by thick robes and an unfamiliar mask, he recoils. Roughened Huttese flows from beneath the mask in a dialect he’s unfamiliar with, but it pulls out a collective laugh from the smugglers. He doesn’t understand but he knows when he’s being _mocked_. 

“Che copah?” _How much?_

Maybe it’s an imposter. It _couldn’t_ be you. _You_ are tucked away on his ship, safe with the child. The drug must still be thrumming through his veins, clouding his perception. Why else would he be imagining your voice attached to this...this bounty hunter?

The bounty hunter, mask shaped like a crude rendition of a Tuskan Raider, turns and makes her way over to the table, picking through his weapons on display, chittering to her associates. His temper simmers in his chest as her leather clad finger brushes along the edges of his poof gun.

It continues like this. The bounty hunter who is not you yet has your voice, talking about what Mando assumes to be a bargain about the weapons or himself. He’s close to falling asleep out of pure _boredom_ when they all surge forward and move towards the exit. 

The smugglers laugh as the woman says something sharp and sarcastic and he _nearly_ misses it. As they climb the stairs her hand, fingers lighter than a feather, slip across his former bounty’s hip and nicks the set of keys off his belt. _Curious_. 

He’s none the wiser.

They don’t return for hours.

Then, when Mando makes up his mind—completely fed up with _waiting_ for so damn long, a door creaks open. The soft _thumps_ of footsteps against rickety wooden stairs echoes through the room, the woman’s masked eyes glowing red in the darkened light. 

“You in charge around here?” Mando bites, voice roughened by days without use. “Maybe if I turn _you_ in I’ll get double the credits.”

She tilts her head, the glint of a keycard flashing through her fingers as she rolls it over her gloved knuckles. “For what it’s worth—” 

She reaches up and tugs off the mask with a crooked smile. “You’ll just be giving _me_ most of it anyway.”

All that anger and bitter resentment rushes out with a gentle sigh of your name. Part of him is relieved you’re here—saving him from the pain of fighting with a dislocated limb but where—

You beat him to it as you slide the keypass into the slot and yank the door open. The metal gyrates on its hinges and you wince. “Don’t worry—he’s with someone I trust.” 

The Mandalorian will never doubt what you say. _Stars_ , you could tell him Tatooine had five moons instead of three and he’d believe you—but Mando knows how quick people who have little to lose get with an insurmountable amount of credits when offered.

You rush to collect his things, slingling his bandolier over your head and then his poof gun (it’s practically the same _size_ as you). You pocket the commlink, holster both his blasters in the hidden pockets of your robes and flash him a smile. 

He can’t help but watch. He shouldn’t enjoy the way your fingers slide over the durasteel weapons—something so soft and sweet shouldn’t be touching something like that. “Aren’t you gonna uncuff me?” 

“No. For this to work, I need to make it believable. I’m a big scary crime lord, remember?”

“Hm,” he nods, giving your stature a critical once-over. “I wouldn’t say _big_.”

You pout. “Watch it. I might leave you in here.” 

“You’re a liar.”

Shrugging, you shoot him a grin and readjust your mask over your head. Your voice sounds strange coming out of a vocoder. “ _Boska_ , Mando.” Is that how he sounds to you? Warped and distant?

You’re careful with his shoulder as you usher him up the stairs and out the door. It’s then he realizes just how _stupid_ his half formed escape plan would’ve been if executed. It’s a _maze_ up here. 

A little alcove of roughened criminals and washed up scum linger in their own bazaar of filth. He hadn’t a clue this little underground area _existed_ — how the _fuck_ did _you_ of all people find it?

Mando certainly has _questions_. 

“Keep moving, scum,” you bark, tapping the end of _his_ gun over his pauldron. He can _hear_ the smile manifest in your words and it takes a great deal of strength not to _laugh_. 

Alien and human alike bark out jeers as you both steadily make your way to the surface. Not too fast to raise suspicion and not to languid to look like you’re putting on a show. 

It’s an art to appear nonchalant.

You’re almost there. Four turns to the left, down a corridor, and up a flight of carved out stairs where he can see the cold twinkle of stars and aird breeze that kicks up plumes of dust. It just so happens to be the same place you run into his old _friend_.

Mando swears he can _smell_ the alcohol on the zabrak’s breath. If he could just press his thumb to the incendiary, he’s sure he’ll light up like a blown up gas line. You take a more civil route and step forward. 

“Doopee.” _Move_

The zabrak snarls, sharp canines flashing in the sparse moonlight. “Dopa-meeky schutta!” 

The yellow colored zabrak is inebriated enough for you both to sidestep his grabbing hands and jam your foot into his lower back as he stumbles. With a startled shout he catapults down the stairs, no doubt alerting one and every person with enough sense to realize what happened. 

“Time to go,” Mando suggests, nudging your stunned figure along.

You nod. “Probably best.” 

Gripping his elbow, you unlock his restraints and shoot into an alley on the left. Mando doesn’t have time to be in pain as his shoulder bounces and twists the fragile ligaments further as he runs after you. Frantic shouts of his escape can already be heard above the ambiance of Mos Eisley, spurring you into a light run. 

“We’re almost there,” you say over your shoulder. “Can you handle a speeder?”

He _can_ , but his arm feels numb yet razor sharp and hot each time he _breathes._ “My arm—”

You wave him off as you round the corner into a little clearing. Two speeder bikes rest there, looking fresh off the assembly line of a _dumpster_. “I’ll drive then.”

“On _this?”_ Mando prods at the stripped handles. “We’re better off running.” 

Your face is still covered but Mando can only imagine what sort of face you’re pulling. The speeder dips under your weight as you swing a leg over. “Get on, Bucket-head.” 

You leave no room for argument. With a sigh he steps over and squeezes himself behind you. With another long exhale he dips his head onto your shoulder, wrapping his good arm around your waist to anchor himself. 

“Let’s get outta here,” you murmur, giving his hand curled around your stomach a pat.

He couldn’t agree more. 

The speeder jolts as you rev the motor and shoot off into the darkened alley. It’s hard to see—even harder to skirt around the sudden edges of alleyways and occasional pedestrians. A duo of Rodians screech as you cut a corner _so_ close his armour brushes the wall. 

“You shouldn’t be allowed to drive,” he gripes, “you’ve almost killed us _three_ times.”

“Shut up! You’re the one who— _oh no._ ”

He has just a _second_ to breathe before you stick your foot out into the dirt, launching the speeder bike a whole three sixty around and into the opposite direction as blaster fire ricochets off the wall _just_ above your heads. _Maker_ , you’ve made him _nauseous_.

He grips your shirt like a lifeline. 

-=-=-=-

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck_ — 

_What the fuck_ —

How the _hell_ does he do this everyday of his damn _life?_

You duck as more plasma bolts cut into the sandstone walls. The whole town seems to be shooting at you like some kind of _game._ You don’t think you’ve ever swallowed this much _sand_ either as your speeder races through the outskirts of town. 

You’re almost out. After taking quite a few roundabouts and off kiltered paths, you’ve managed to duck most of your assailents. You have a straight shot into the endless desert, praying to any and all higher power out there that this damn fiasco can finally end.

Sadly, as luck would have it; they’ve obtained a sharp-shooter.

Mando hisses out a warning, reaches out and jerks the steering wheel. The shot explodes near your knee, singing the thick fabric. You swear and punch the gears into overdrive. It’s not good for the motor but you hardly give a shit. 

“Just a few more clicks and we’ll be—”

“ _Fuck_ —Watch out!”

Before you can blink, Mando jerks the handles once more, tucking you close into his chest as one well-aimed shot, hyperspace blue bursts across the expanse of beskar. 

You only know the Mandalorian survives because of the ragged wheeze telling you to go _faster_. 

Tears blurring the edges of your vision, you do.

-=-=-=-

Everything kriffing _hurts_ when he wakes up. Every breath feels like inhaling fire and his shoulder is about to _explode_ — but he’s _alive._ Not in his ship, but certainly alive and breathing. At least his shoulder is reset. 

His bare hands shift across cotton sheets, a plush mattress, and when he finally convinces himself to open his eyes, he’s greeted with the familiar mod filter in his helmet. Mando swallows, mouth parched and dry. 

Where are you? Or, to be exact, where is _he?_

There’s soft voices flowing from the little living room outside. One of them is you, the other a man, his hushed whispers warbling and dipping with hesitation and uncertainty. The man you _trust_ , he remembers.

Mando could never say that you’ve ever raised your voice at _himself_ in anger. Irritation yes, but the chilled snap and bite of your exasperated words are something new. He doesn’t like it—doesn’t like the surge of his own trepidation that comes with thinking that someone has pissed you off.

 _Fuck_ —his whole body pulses with dull aching pain. A headache presses at his temples, insistent and sharp as he tries to sit up. His hand shoots out to steady his vertigo, efficiently knocking over the little desert flower in a porcelain vase resting on the nightstand. He’s too slow to catch it, wincing as it shatters across the floor.

The conversation cuts off. You whisper something and sit up, your soft footsteps near silent as you make your way down the hallway. 

“Mando?” _Maker_ , he wants to melt. 

You push back the thick carpet used as a door, brows drawn and lips pulled into a tight line of worry. Your eyes catch on the shards of broken porcelain. 

“Sorry,” he blurts. “Didn’t—”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, waving off his concerns. “Go back to sleep. You need the rest.” 

Mando frowns at this. “I don’t—”

You hold up a finger, stopping his piss poor excuse before he could even finish it. You pad closer to the bed until your hand, slow and careful, reaches for his helmet. It’s _ingrained_ in him to flinch away, catch your wrist and keep you at arms length — but your eyes, so soft and lovely and _earnest_ catches him off guard. 

He swallows and drops your wrist. He lets you smooth your fingers over the carved metal—only exploring, never dipping underneath the lip of his helmet. Your eyes drop to his bandaged waist—his bruised shoulder as your teeth bite the inside of your cheek.

“I-I’m sorry. Your armor got the brunt of the damage but it still nicked you.” You look away and run a hand through your hair. “It’ll hurt like a motherfucker until we can get some bacta. Oh, and your shoul—”

“Thank you.”

His soft spoken gratitude stops you mid ramble. “O-oh. I, uh—It’s no biggie.” 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, laying a warm hand over his good shoulder, softly urging him to lay back down. He does. 

There’s still so many questions swirling inside his head like a whirlpool—settling on one before it’s swept out to sea and replaced by another. You raise a brow as his fingers crawl over your fingers fanned out against the mattress. 

“I didn’t know you spoke Huttese,” he says. It’s the easiest of the bunch to fish out of his thoughts.

You shrug, goosebumps erupting over your arms as his thumb draws careful circles over your wrist. “That tends to happen when your planet is owned by the Hutts.” 

He snorts. “Explains why you drive like an idiot.”

“ _Hey_ ,” you laugh, reaching up to tap on the side of his helmet. “The only reason you’re alive is _because_ of my wicked cool speeder stunts.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

You cross your arms and huff. 

Fuck—you’re beautiful. Even when your nose is scrunched up like that and dirt still cakes your eyebrows and smile lines. _Even_ when you put on your best glare and try not to smile as he whispers your name. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to rip off the damn helmet and plant a kiss on those perfectly pouted lips. 

There’s a gentle lull as you study his helmet. He likes your eyes—so curious and lively but swimming with your own inquiries. He’d give up half his savings to know what you’re thinking but right now, but, he has an inkling. 

“Why have you never asked?”

You look away _. He was right_.

  
“Your name or about the…” You meet his gaze through the visor, a gesture to his figure with a smirk. “...the helmet?” 

“Both.” 

You chew the inside of your lip and look up, rolling the words around until they fit with what you mean. “Well...I’m not one to question someone's religion, y’know? And, I _assume_ you get tired of all the questions.” 

_Yes. He does._

He’s satisfied with your answer. It’s simple, to the point, but he doesn’t stop you as more words tumble from your lips. 

“I..just,” you lick your lips and blink. “You...you don’t _owe_ anyone your name. It’s yours at the end of the day and — and whether or not you decide to _share_ it is up to you. To me, if I call you Mando or Shiny, or _Bucket-head_ , you’re still yourself. I-I don’t care what you’re called because to me you’ll always be you—and that’s enough.” 

He’s positive that a weight crushes his chest. Tears through his ribcage and rips out the air from his lungs. A whirlwind of emotion, bright and catastrophic, wells in his chest, seizes his heart until he’s nothing more than a ghostly memory. No one _ever_ —

“Uh, sorry,” you rush out, your skin flushing a darker hue qt his prolonged silence. “Shouldn’t’ve said that. I-I’ll just go. Yeah, I think I hear—”

You move to leave but he catches your arm. Something dark and intrepid within him snarls at your dismissal, torquing his voice into something akin to _panic_. “No. _Stay_.” 

Your mouth, agape, quickly snaps shut as you stumble back onto the bed. 

“No one— _fuck_ . No one’s ever said— how are you so — so _perfect?”_

A shy smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “Hardly. It’s obvious that too many people have opinions on things they know nothing about. I’m just—well—”

“ _Perfect_.” 

He knows you’ll never agree but you have enough sense not to argue—for now. For _now_ he has his way, for now he has your full attention without any distractions. He wants to give you everything he has to offe — make up for the pain, the bruises, the fear, the _interruptions_. 

“I want you,” he purrs, brushing his fingers along the waistband of your pants. “Let me have you.”

You flash him a smile so bright it hurts—

And then shoo away his hand. “Mando, you’re _hurt_ . You need _rest_.” 

Stars, you’re right—everything _hurts_. His shoulder burns all in the name of you. His hand whispers up your bare arm, hoping it’ll bend your will until it snaps and catapults into the fire. He can see it curve as your eyes flutter shut and you lean into his touch. 

Curling closer, his fingers glide over your jaw and rests his forefinger beneath your chin. His bare thumb glides over your bottom lip, parted and pliant. 

You sigh. 

He’s too entranced to notice the way his whole arm shakes with the strain of holding it up until you’re catching his hand between both your palms and bringing them to rest in your lap. 

Mando is shaking—you can’t leave. He won’t _let_ you — ” _Please_. Stay.” 

Your jaw clenches as you finally cave. _Finally._

 _“Fine,_ but I’m only laying down with you,” you say, wagging a finger. “You hear me? _Nothing else_.” 

His body sings as you kick off your shoes and carefully roll over him until you’re nestled into his side, taking care of any injury. The lip of his helmet bumps over your forehead, slipping his hand into yours. Before you can escape or _realize_ what he’s doing to put a stop to it, he’s pressing your fingers against the thick shaft between his legs. 

“Are you sure?” He teases, grinding your palm against his cock until it twitches with interest. 

“ _Mando_ — “

He laughs as you rip your hand back, your brows drawn into a _cutting_ glare. “M’just making sure you don’t wanna change your mind.” 

You do—he knows this. But your will is strong—all for him. 

Before you can say something whip-sharp and devastating, he cups your face and strokes a thumb over your frown. It melts away like frost, and just as your eyes slip shut he says—

“My name…” He can’t hold back. It’s like hoping to stop a waterfall with an _umbrella_. “...it’s Din. Din Djarin.” 

Your eyes shoot open, lurching in disbelief. He can hardly believe it himself. His chest is a mess of jittery creatures, all twisting and curling and _panicking_ — 

It’s chaos—he’s destroyed everything, tilting his world into destruction and an unsolvable pandemic— _Stars_ —

“ _Din_.” 

He chokes. 

All that destruction—all the chaotic comes to a sudden, nauseating _stop_ . You’re at the eye of the storm as you roll the word — _his name_ — around your mouth. He thinks you’re the only one who should be allowed to say it. You’re the only one who says it _right_. 

He could sit there for ages, pondering upon why it feels so good to hear you say his name. Not Mando, but _Din_. The man beneath the armor, beneath all the split-second decisions and hardened manners. 

Your hands pushed at his chest again and he’ll do anything— _anything_ for you.

“Go to sleep,” you whisper, kissing a sweet kiss over his clavicle. “I’ll be here.” 

His eyes flutter shut, the last thing he hears—an angelic sigh of his name being murmured across his skin like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


	5. stat·ic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning, the beginning is a bit drab....some good dickin down at the end tho

“It’s kinda... _ugly.”_

“ _You’re_ ugly."

A terse silence follows that finishes with a long drawn out sigh. “I forgot how much of a _joy_ you are to have around.”

Maker, you want nothing more than to punch the _shit_ out of him. It’s not his fault, he was _born_ annoying. Always skeptical, always prying into places he shouldn’t just for the sake of saying he _knows more than you_ . Not to mention, _always_ shoving his fingers into a gundark’s maw until it has no other option than to _bite_. 

Said gundark being _you_ and your cousin’s fingers _much_ too close to your razor sharp teeth. 

“But seriously,” Kohrin diverts, saving himself at just the last moment, “what _is_ it?”

Forcing your scowl away, your eyes drift down to the Child clutching at your pant leg. His wide brown eyes are latched onto the little loth-cat tucked away on the opposite side of the domed room. _Janky_ \--as Kohrin so lovingly named it an _eon_ ago. It must be the food or _something_ your cousin has been feeding it because you know Janky is _well_ over the age of dirt itself. It _should_ be dead. 

The kid’s ears flick as Janky yawns, flashing a row of approximately _three_ teeth, squints with a judgmental flick of the tail, and settles back into his preferred napping spot just below the windosill. The baby whines and clutches your pant leg tighter.

“Aw, it’s ok,” you coo, patting him between his large ears. “Janky is nice!” 

Your cousin tilts his head, squints much like Janky does (you wonder who picked it up from whom), then gasps. “Oh, _stars_ —don’t tell me you _birthed_ it.”

Your head shoots up. “What? _No!_ He’s like...fifty years old!”

Kohrin throws up his arms in defeat. “Nothing you say makes sense!”

“Well, you’ve never been very bright so I wouldn’t expect you to.” 

He pinches his nose between his stick-like fingers and squeezes his eyes shut as if warding away an oncoming headache. “ _Maker.”_

A litany of words that bites like wildfire pushes at the airtight line your lips are pressed into. You hold an arsenal of expletives and perfectly crafted insults woven between your fingertips, ready to fire yet....yet something about the way he sighs stops your tongue.

Kohrin is four years your senior—nothing dramatic but the way he carries himself is almost... _elderly_ . In the past, all those years prior to now, you’ve always carried the idea that his eyes matched the brilliance of Jewel beetles, plenty and overwhelming on your home planet. Iridescent green, flashy and attractive to the eye with their multilayered hues and shiny shells. His eyes are still green—always _will_ be—though now they sport the same lackluster shine of unpolished jade and dark bags beneath like bruises to match. 

His hair, once richer than coal, dons silvery white hairs speckled throughout the gentle curls despite still being in his twenties. He shouldn’t look this weathered, this tired, this _defeated_. 

Your irritation shrivels into a lead weight and sits at the back of your throat. He’s sticking his neck out for you and here you are being a complete and utter _ass_. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur, dropping your gaze to inspect the frayed laces of your boots. “I’m being—”

“Insufferably rude?” Kohrin supplies, arching a dark brow. 

You snort. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

Kohrin chews the inside of his lip as the baby coos and outstretches his hands to be picked up. You oblige with a tiny grin. “So...uh. H-how are you?”  
  
“Fine. Mos Espa is always lively,” he sighs. “Though the Emp—”

You feel the lurking presence long before Kohrin’s eyes jump to the Mandalorian planting himself behind your seat. Kohrin swallows, his eyes smoothing over into a stony stare. “You’ve survived then.”

Mando’s head tilts. “Was I not supposed to?” 

Whatever aggravation you forced away returns tenfold. “ _Kohrin_ —”

“Oh, I’m just poking _fun_ ,” he says with no hint of a smile _whatsoever_. “Never thought I’d be accomodating a bounty hunter, much less a Mandalorian.” 

Your cousin is lucky. By no means is Mando quick to anger—irritation sure, and impatient with certain things just not _reckless_ with his rage. _Very_ lucky your cousin’s ill-temperament hardly rustles, if any, of Mando’s feathers. “It’s appreciated.” 

“ _Tch_. Whatever.” Kohrin, taken aback by the _genuine_ thanks, stands and escapes into the meager kitchen. 

“ _Asshole_ ,” you mutter, glaring daggers into the back of Kohrin’s _thick_ head. The space to your left dips as Mando gingerly sits himself down onto the loveseat. Maybe if he weren’t wearing the entirety of his armor he’d fit better, but you aren’t complaining. Even if the beskar _does_ hurt your elbow that’s pushed against it. “And what are _you_ doing out of bed?” 

Something between a snort and a scoff crackles through the vocoder. “Heard you arguing.” 

“Hm.” You preen under the fact he’d been worried yet equally distressed he sacrificed his wellbeing. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Who is he?” 

You’d accuse anyone else of being jealous. Tease to the point of him admitting it with a huffy scoff but now isn’t the time. For all he knows, Kohrin could be a vibroknife-wielding maniac. 

“My cousin—Kohrin Vale.” You offer up with a wave in his general direction. “Kinda lacking in the uh...manners department.” 

Mando hums, offering up a gloved finger to his son’s grabby hands. “You started it.” 

You puff up your cheeks and let the air escape in a noisy sigh. “I _know_. I just—I dunno know. Somehow I always end up _not_ thinking about _words_.” 

“You _do_ think,” he assures in that absolute, no-sort of fuckery kind of way. “Just not with your brain, brave girl.” 

Pouting, not sure _what_ to think of _that,_ you fold your arms over your chest and decide to say _nothing_ at all. That’ll show him. And unlike a normal person, who would have the decency or enough brain cells to leave you well alone, the darkened visor still focuses on your face. You can only imagine what sort of smug smirk is plastered on his face. _“What?”_

“You’re easy to tease.”

Just as you open your mouth to snap something absolutely _foul_ , Kohrin reenters the small living space with a tray of caf and a glass of suspiciously _blue_ milk. “I would offer you something, Mando but…”

Kohrin trails off as he gives the shiny beskar a pointed look. “Hopefully your... _pet thing_ likes this.” 

As your cousin grips the glass and holds it out tentatively for the kid, a mottled scar, stark white against Kohrin’s olive skin peeks over the manilla colored sleeve of his tunic. A _brand_. The same kind of marking a farmer would put on their livestock to mark them as _property_. 

“You’re a slave?”

In the short months you’ve had the pleasure of knowing Mando, you’ve grown familiar with the inflections of his voice. The timbre and cadence of his words as they filter through the vocoder in his helmet. In the beginning he sounded flat—emotionless and critical to your ears. It’s a hard learned skill—grasping at the limited information you could obtain from a faceless man. It’s not _always_ accurate, sure, but you like to think your intuition holds little to no fault. Like now, for instance, you _know_ Mando’s question is not meant to offend—simply curious and mildly surprised—yet, how was your cousin to know? 

The damage is already done before you can intervene. 

“I’m a _person_ ,” Kohrin spits, lips curling over his teeth in a snarl, “you useless, oversized pile of _junk metal_.” 

Your teeth clench, your nails leaving behind crescent shaped dents into your forearm as you fixate on the sandy floorboards. The air is static, one spark away from incernating you all into crisps. There’s too many things that could go wrong and not enough that could go _right_. You jump as Kohrin snatches up the serving tray with enough verve that it makes the table shake. 

“I earned my freedom,” Kohrin continues, his voice coated in enough toxin to kill a small creature. “Not that it’s _any_ of your business. But I doubt you see me as anything more than just a _bounty_ . What _is_ the price on runaway slaves nowadays, _Mando?_ ” 

The Mandalorian is far too proud to stand down but you admire the choice not to ignite the room with a flamethrower of insults or, you know, an _actual_ flamethrower. 

“I wouldn’t know. Never high enough to be worth it.” 

Kohrin’s lips purse. 

The same blanket of wretched silence follows until Kohrin shatters it with a disbelieving scoff and roll of the eyes. “I have to get going. Some guy wants his TIE fighter fixed and I promised Ostim I’d help.” 

You stand, not really sure _what_ to say but wanting to say something nonetheless. “You don’t—” 

He shrugs you off, gathering his bag and the mask he so graciously let you borrow during your rescue mission. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I won’t tell anyone about Bucket Head over here.” 

Your brows furrow as you rush after him, your palms scraping against the wooden door meant to slam behind him. The air is already a _blistering_ temperature despite being early in the morning and in no way shape or form were you expecting to sprint through mounds of scalding sand to catch up with your cousin’s lanky figure. Yet here you are. 

“Kohrin!” You shout. _“Wait!”_

Your hands clamp over the handlebars of his speeder just as he revs the motor. “Get out of the way.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to keep your mouth shut,” you bite, gripping the speeder like a lifeline. “And we’re not kicking you out of your own home. That’s...that’s _ridiculous_.”

His stare is unyielding and drier than the air. “I hope not. I paid a lot of credits for it.” 

“ _Kohrin_.” You gripe. “ If you ask, we’ll leave. Right now.”

Your cousin groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Maker_ _—_ you don’t...you don’t have to go. Besides, I would...wait another day or two before you leave.”

“Why?” 

Kohrin’s brow, leaning towards unkempt, rises. “Are you serious? You weasled your way into a _crime ring_ and broke _Mr. Shiny_ outta jail. _Oh!_ Not to mention, those speeders you stole?” 

“ _Borrowed_ ,” you mutter.

“You’re lucky Jax didn’t shoot you. _I_ would’ve.” 

Considering Jax was a repurposed _bounty_ _droid_ your guilt at the time had been near to non-existent. Why was a droid moisture farming anyway? Seemed...kinda, you don’t know...pointless? 

“Anyways,” Kohrin persists, interrupting your internal befuddlement. “There were some guys asking around about Bucket Head—and not those scumbags from Mos Eisley, either. Told ‘em they could go to hell.”

A kernel of unease settles over your shoulders. Making enemies go hand in hand with Mando’s current occupation—you _know_ that. You’re only hope is whoever those guys were, _were_ from Mos Eisley and just peeved about their poor security. 

“I have to go,” Kohrin restates, shooing away your hands. “Don’t break anything and if you _do_ leave—don’t make a scene.” 

He pulls down his mask, tips two of his fingers off his forehead in a mock salute, and shoots off. You cough, inhaling a mouthful of sand and watch until he’s a tiny speck on the horizon. You sigh, and head back inside. You don’t fancy letting the soles of your boots melt off.

Inside is pleasantly cooler, some of that itchy anxiety fizzling out at the sight of the kid’s ears perk up at your return. Mando still sits, perched on the edge of the cushion as if it were impossible to physically relax. 

With a sigh you slump down beside him and rest your head over his pauldron. “You hear any of that?”

He nods. 

“I think we should stay. Just for a couple more days.”

You feel him shrug. “We’ll see.”

It’s not the complete answer you were hoping for, yet it’s the only answer you know he’ll give. 

  
  
  


-=-=-

  
  
  


_We’ll see_ , you repeat with a sour stare, _yeah right_. 

It’s the way things always are with him. Never settling in one place—never enough time to _heal_ for Maker’s sake. If you were braver or maybe had even a _fraction_ of Mando’s strength you’d wrestle the stupid man to the ground and give him no other option than to _rest_. 

Sadly, and with an upsetting amount of compromises—no, _scratch that_ —Mando didn’t even _give_ you time to argue. You’d both been here all but three days ( _less_ than, actually), when Mando gripped your arm and _hauled_ you outside to assert that you’d be leaving. _Today_. 

You can’t pinpoint the _exact_ reason for the sudden change of plans. Perhaps the cocktail of your cousin’s insufferable character (or rather _yours_ ), the looming threat of the underground blackmarket enacting their possible revenge, or to top it off; the ungodly _heat_. 

How Mando manages not to _cook_ inside his armor throws you for a loop. He must have some sort of cooling system in there or _something—_

_Anyways..._

There’s just enough time to scribble down a hasty note and leave it over your cousin’s pillow, throw your belongings into your bag, and return to an antsy Mando waiting stiffly outside the door. 

Neither of you mention the neatly stacked pile of credits on top of the dinning table.

It’s not your business to question it. If Mando wants to give Kohrin more than what he makes in a year over a room barely used for a couple days, then so be it. You just hope your cousin isn’t dumb enough to blab about it or interpret the credits as hush money... 

“Where’s the Crest?” 

“Wha _—_ oh,” you scoop the kid off the ground, saving his little feet from being scorched off, and point. “It’s behind those rocks _—_ Jawas got to it last place you docked so I moved it.” 

Mando bristles, a sharp wariness lining his words. “They take anything?” 

You roll your eyes and start off towards the Razor Crest. “Of course they did. Little shits didn’t even _knock_.”

“ _Please_ tell me I _—_ ”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you laugh, shooting him a grin. You wince as a ray of sun bounces off his helmet and straight into your eyes as he turns to look at you. “They never stood a _chance_ against me.” 

“You’re lucky. Last time I had to fight a Mudhorn.” 

“Wait, what?” 

Mando doesn't offer any more explanation than that, adding on to the growing pile of confusion and questions that settle in the back of your mind. Oh well...You’ll ask him later. You’ve learned it’s best to just let certain things go instead of letting your curiosity eat you from the inside out. 

Your lungs deflate with a loud sigh of relief upon seeing the ship. No Womp rat infestation and no Jawas to be seen. Just the plain old Razor Crest in all its chipped paint and banged up glory. You’re near to tears too as a chilly wave of air wafts out, smoothing over your burning skin. 

“Fuck _—_ I _hate_ Tatooine,” you mutter, scurrying up the loading ramp as fast as humanly possible. “One too many fucking _suns_.” 

“I don't think you’ve ever complained this much,” Mando says. His hand skims over you lower back as he strides over to the cockpit ladder. “Not even on Nar Shaddaa”

“ _Nar Shaddaa_ ,” you begin, placing the squirming child in his crib, “does _not_ have the plague equivalent of _sand_.”

You shuck off your boot, grab it, and tip it forward to show the steady stream of grainy, manilla colored dust that trickles out. “ _Seriously—_ it’s even in my _ears_ , Mando.”

The Mandalorian tilts his head, studying what you’re sure are the _layers_ of dust and sweat caking your skin, your chapped lips and limp, frazzled hair. You shift under the weight of his stare, a hot blush, even hotter than your current sunburn, rushes all the way up to your ears. _Maker—_ you _feel_ gross, you certainly _look_ the part and yet Mando _continues_ to stare.

“What?” 

“Just thinking about the promise I made.” 

Your brain jumps to _that_ night, more than a week ago, curled under the weight of him as he gave you just a _taste_ of what hides beneath those thick, heavy-layered pants of his. 

Swallowing what feels like fifty percent sand, you manage a weak, “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Abandoning his hold on the ladder he stalks forward. Your single-shoed clad feet are stuck to the spot, as he prowls closer. His sleek movements, too quiet and poised for that much equipment attached to his body, remind you just how fatal the Mandalorian can be. A baby bantha thrown to the mercies of a rancor _—that’s_ what you were right now. 

You don’t realize he's boxed you in until your shoulders bump against the durasteel plating. The dry smell of desert wind and hot metal sticks to his person and as you place a palm over the beskar cuirass you can still feel the lingering heat. 

“Do you want that, my brave girl?” He asks, the rounded edges of his velvety voice dipping into a soft rumble. 

Your heart flutters within your chest, inhaling sharply as he drags a gloved finger from your sternum all the way up to your chin. His thumb pulls at your bottom lip, your mouth pliant and willing for the Mandalorian. 

“Answer me.” 

“ _Yes_.” 

Mando’s thumb slides off your lip and drifts down to the shoe you still clutch in your hands. You let him steal the offending object, the heavy sole meeting the durasteel floor with a resounding, and meaty _thump_. The beginning of arousal stirs in your belly, the air in your lungs escaping entirely and replaced with stuttered pants. 

“Take a shower and then we’ll see.” 

A bucket of ice water cascades over your head as you sputter from the abrupt flip. “W-what?”

Mando cocks his head to the side and brushes off a patch of dirt lingering on your eyebrow. “You’re filthy.” 

Irked, you cross your arms over your chest and attempt to muscle past him. Even if he _is_ right. “Thought you liked me filthy.” 

“ _Go_.”

“Fine.”

-=-=-

The shower is uneventful—well, if scrubbing the dirt off your skin as humanly _possible_ is considered that. You haven’t seen Mando in _days_ and he goes and teases you like that? _Asshole_ . A complete and utter _—_

He calls your name, knuckles rasping against the door. “Can I come in?” 

“Wait!” You gasp, cursing as soap flows _directly_ into your eyeballs. “I’m naked!”

You don’t know _why_ the request makes you panic. Force of habit really, because the idea of showering with the Mandalorian _shouldn’t_ make you _panic._

“I would hope so.”

Before you can bang your forehead against the wall in repent for your completely stupid, _idiotic_ , dumb-assery, he asks again. This time quieter _—_ weaker and less sure as if asking to shower with you were some sort of wild and otherworldly request. 

For him _—probably is._

“ _Maker—_ yeah. Sorry _—_ don’t even know why I _said_ that.” You fist your burning eyes, a mix of tears and shampoo that is somehow getting _worse_. What the _fuck_. “You can turn off the light.”

You’re still attempting to irrigate your eyes, wallowing in your own morbid ineptitude. Far too occupied on your current task, there isn’t time to concern yourself on how the singular bulbed light, better equipped to illuminate a _cupboard_ , still does not turn off. You only notice after a fair amount of time slips by, accompanied by the steady stream of water and your huffy swearing— _awkward_. 

“Are you gonna...uh—”

“Can I trust you?” He cuts you off. 

_What am I? A rancor?_ The words hover on the tip of your tongue, but—

There’s a quiet warble of uncertainty in his voice that slices through your indignant scoff. The same sort of fragility displayed for you on Coruscant—the bleeding heart of a man who’s handing you the end-all-be-all power to rip through the very fabrics of himself. His trust, his _religion_ —everything he’s ever _known_. You don’t think you deserve that sort of power.

It’s...it’s not as if you aren’t _responsible_ with it. _Maker_ —you cradle it between your hands like an egg carved out of glass knowing that one snagg in the road could shatter it. It’s more about the fact you could never return such a thing in the same manner; like paying for an artistic masterpiece in pinecones rather than in precious stones. 

It doesn’t stop you from laying down every bit of yourself, hoping he accepts your pinecones and your adoration that burns brighter than a small sun. It’s all you _have_. “Always.”

Mando sucks in a careful breath. “Close your eyes.”

You don’t mention the fact that they’re _already_ squeezed shut due to the fact you’ve most likely been _blinded_. Poor timing to mention your sudsy enemy as you can already feel the slight disturbance of the flimsy curtain being pulled back. A shiver wracks through you as a chilly burst of air nips at your exposed skin and then _warmth._ The solid line of his body slips in behind you, filling in the limited amount of space left in the tiny cubicle. And you mean _limited_. You can hardly move around in here without battling the walls with your elbows and challenging your flexibility. 

The touch of his palm against your ribcage startles you, eyelids fluttering with the threat of opening, but you made an unspoken promise _damnit_. Sure, as of now if you happened to open your eyes all you’d see would be the shower handle but you’re not one to take promises, personal or not, lightly. 

Mando’s fingers lightly trace up towards your shoulder blade and sweeps your hair, plastered to the nape of your neck, to the side. “Turn around.” 

You do so without hesitation, giggling as Mando’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs jumping up to smooth down your eyebrows. From here he tugs you forward into a deep, toe-curling kiss, shuddering as the cool metal of the wall touches your skin. You break away and place your palm over his stubbled cheek. He leans into your palm. 

“Why the lights?”

“I never get to see you naked.” Mando says, cupping one of your breasts. He pinches your nipple and rolls it between his forefinger and thumb, plucking out a gasp from your parted lips. 

You grin. “Should I walk around in the nude from now on? That would give your quarries a spook for sure.”

Mando nips at your ear, one arm hooking around your waist. “ _No_. Fuck—don’t even _joke_ about that.”

“About the quarries or the nude bit?”

He trails tiny kisses from your ear down to the crook of your neck, your blood already singing even though the chaste pecks are nothing but innocent. You don’t think he’ll respond as those kisses morph into nips, sucking a sure to be bruise into the flesh. 

“I _always_ want you naked,” Mando admits, his breath that fans over your skin warmer than the tepid water. “It’d be easier to fuck you whenever I want.”

The arm around your waist curls further around and down, grabbing a handful of your ass and giving it a rough squeeze. You whimper, curling further into his hold as liquid heat races from the pit of your stomach and outward to each and every limb. He worms his muscled thigh between your legs, pinning you further against the wall, the hand on your ass snaking back to massage tiny circles over your thigh. You whimper and thread your fingers into the wet strands of his hair, arching and bucking your hips over his leg. 

“But…” he trails on, pausing in between each heavy pant to capture your mouth. “Scum doesn’t deserve to see even a _hair_ on your head _, brave girl.”_

You feel the velvety skin of his cock harden against your navel, your lack of sight making the idea of putting _that_ inside you, much more intimidating. But damn it all to Hell if you didn’t at least _try_. 

You moan low in the back of your throat as your hand gently encompases his girth, rapidly swelling to it’s full, monstrous length. Mando shudders and sags into your hold, huffing out curses and roughly parting your thighs further apart. You whine and press your head into the wall as two of those thick, calloused fingers pass over your clit, throbbing and aching to be touched. Your own slick mixed with the aide of the water let the two digits glide with ease over your lips, rocking down to circle your clenching entrance then back to lightly trace the little bundle of nerves. 

_Fuck_ . You don’t give a shit if he tears you open. You’ve waited far too _long_. You can’t risk another second, fearing that he’ll be called away _again_. “ _Din—Din._ F-fuck. Jus-just fuck me. I don’t _care—_ ”

His cock jumps in your grip as you whine his name, needy and desperate as you roll your palm up and down his member. He curses under his breath, and bites your earlobe. “ _Hush_. Impatient, girl.” 

You groan as he pushes a finger into your cunt, the muscles squeezing around him for just a _shred_ of pleasure. “ _Please_. I-I waited _forever_.”

“ _Needy_.” He chastises.

You’re going to burst. You’re going to fuckin _explode_ into a million little pieces if he doesn’t give you more than just a measly finger, you’ll _kill_ him. You cry out your frustration as you roll your hips, your nails digging into his bicep to pull him closer. He must take pity on your squirming, pathetic display as he abruptly extracts his finger, grips both your hips and strong arms you around. 

Your stomach drops as your bare feet slip off the drain, yet the heavy muscled weight of Mando’s chest pinning you forward saves you from landing ass over heels. He grips his cock in one hand and slides the thick head over the wet slit of your cunt, the tip of him catching against your dripping entrance. 

You jerk and press your hips back. “M-mando…”

“ _Fuck_.” His hand wraps around your front and pushes tight, urgent circles over your clit. “I’ll give it to you. Needy little thing.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as the very tip of him, searing hot and harder than tempered steel, pushes into you. It feels the same as before, the same pinch and fluttering panic that he’s too _big_ . Your squirm and whine as he rocks his hips forward, the little motions seating him deeper into your greedy center. _Maker—_ you think it’ll go on _forever_ , with no room to accommodate him. 

“ _There_ you go,” he babbles, his breathing a mess of pitchy moans and praise. “Fuck _—_ such a good girl. Taking it all.” 

Your nails scrabble to find purchase on the smooth surface, shivering and twitching in his hold as the narrow dip of his waist slots against your ass. Your name flows past his lips, the enamel of his teeth tugging at the fragile skin lining the base of your neck. 

_Stars—_ your thoughts are pulverized into _dust_ at the first experimental thrust of his hips. There _is_ no buildup to the pace he sets once he gets a taste of your pussy. No pomp or patience as his hand anchors itself around your throat and slams into you. 

It’s a ridiculously short amount of time, you think, as your orgasm creeps down each vertebrae, your cunt clamping down on his cock tighter than a fucking vice. One last roll against your clit and you’re gone. So fucking _gone_. 

The edges of your entire being drop off into some unknown void; bursts of light igniting behind your eyelids as you wiggle and shake. 

“Shit _—_ get so fucking _wet_ when you cum,” he snarls. “And _tight_. S-so fucking _tight_.” 

You’re not allowed to float down from your high, He doesn’t _let_ you--forced to ride the razor sharp line of torturous overstimulation. The loud, wet slaps of his hips meeting your ass echoes in the tiny space, accentuates every hitched moan and sharp whimper. Mando’s hand slips off your neck and buries it into your hair at the base of your skull, tugging sharply as your core clenches. 

“M’close,” he pants, “so close. Just _—Maker—_ keep squeezing me like that _—_ ”

Your nerves burn as you slip your own hand down to toy with your clit, a simple caress and your careening off the edge again. Your cries are a jumble of incomprehensible babbles, crisscrossed and fried. The only thing you manage to claw onto is his name. An endless chant of _Din—Din—Din—_

With a dangerously loud curse his bruising pace quickens, frantic as he chases his own release. Din’s hips stutter, the hand in your hair tightening into a fist as his teeth embed themselves over your shoulder. With one _—_ two last thrusts he cums. 

Ropes of his release coats your insides, throbbing and twitching until he’s spent, left with the ambiance of quiet pants and dripping water. 

Maker, you can’t fucking _think_. 

With a grunt he stumbles back as much as he can in the limited space, the absence of his cock leaving his cum to dribble out and slip down the inside of your thigh. You’re still squeezing your eyes shut, jittery and unable to move from your current spot. 

Mando’s hand against your ass startles you. “Keep your eyes closed.” 

“Yeah. Ok.”

He maneuvers you to your front, the weight of his stare lecherous and greedy as he drinks in your fucked out form. He moves to kiss you _—_ a deep kiss, full of tongue and bristly stubble that tickles your upper lip. You frown once he breaks away, yet instead of leaving the shower like you though he would, you feel him slip lower. Kneeling and palming at your thighs until he’s got one hooked over his shoulder. 

You gasp as the heat of his mouth covers your abused cunt, not at all bothered by the mess he left there. “D-Din…” 

“What is it, brave girl,” he sighs, licking a long path from the little patch of skin _just_ before the puckered skin there and back to your clit.

“The _—fuck—_ the _water_.” 

“Let it run out.” 

In retrospect, you probably _shouldn’t_ have. Since, just as your arousal amps up to a sickening overload of euphoria _—_ the water turns colder than _Hoth._

It’s the _last_ and only time you’re _ever_ showering with him. 

_Maybe_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.tumblr.jangofctts.com come yell at me ;)

**Author's Note:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


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